


Points of No Return

by AuroraNova



Series: Private Universe [3]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2019-01-21
Packaged: 2019-10-01 16:35:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 25,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17247656
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraNova/pseuds/AuroraNova
Summary: Garak realized Bashir had been replaced by a Changeling in three minutes, give or take fifteen seconds. That was the easy part. Finding the doctor and bringing him back to the station was supposed to be the hard part, but the aftermath of imprisonment isn't pleasant, and Garak isn't the only one with long-buried secrets about to be revealed."In Purgatory's Shadow," "By Inferno's Light," and "Doctor Bashir, I Presume?" in the Private Universe 'verse.





	1. The Imposter

**Author's Note:**

> This is where the series really gets AU.

Bashir had been attending more medical conferences of late. The current one focused on treating burns, which Garak imagined would take on new importance when war broke out with the Dominion.

This meant Garak’s lunches were presently devoid of interest, and while he appreciated a quiet night alone in his quarters, fifteen of them in a row became tiresome. He feared he had grown overly accustomed to spending some of his evenings with the doctor. When their time together came to an end, as it undoubtedly would, he’d miss the man more than he ought. Such was the price one paid for attachment. In retrospect, he’d set himself up for inevitable loss, but there was nothing to be done about that now, so he would enjoy Bashir’s company while he had the opportunity.

Besides, the Dominion might kill them all and render lesser concerns moot.

The novelty of Odo actually eating breakfast hadn’t entirely abated, so Garak had some small entertainment. Though the constable didn’t entirely appreciate fish juice, he didn’t approach it with bias, either. Bashir had nearly gagged when he tried it, and hadn’t even attempted to argue in favor of finishing his mug out of a misguided attempt at manners.

How anyone could enjoy raktajino but gag on fish juice, Garak didn’t know, and he had never counted fish juice among his favorite drinks. He would grant that the doctor’s usual beverage of choice, Tarkalean tea, was tolerable, though he preferred a nice red leaf in the morning. When his replicator malfunctioned some months earlier, he’d discovered Terran peppermint tea was pleasant if ordered extra strong.

He sat with his peppermint tea and read trade reports on holoprogram trends. His business was beginning to recover from six months of closure, and it wouldn’t do to fall behind the ever-shifting tides of desire. Costumes accounted for a significant percent of his revenue, so knowing which programs were popular would allow him to keep appropriate materials in stock.

After all, if people wanted subpar outfits for their holographic adventures, the replicators would provide. Garak’s creations were of much higher quality.

He also checked out the latest in Ferengi fashion, as Quark was due to commission a new suit any day now. That inevitably involved a great deal of attempted haggling, which never worked because Garak’s prices were firm.

Halfway through an article detailing how important green was on Ferenginar this year, Garak’s door chimed. “Who is it?”

“Bashir.”

He gave the computer permission to open the door. “You’re early.” Bashir hadn’t expected to return for another five and a half hours, well into the station’s night, and thus Garak hadn’t thought to see his _anbaras_ until lunch the following day.

“Shuttle traffic was lighter than anticipated.”

This suited Garak. He’d sent Bashir off with the first enigma tale ever written and was curious to learn how he would misread this particular classic. Very likely the man would try to insist one could claim self-defense against a powerful first legate, as though the law applied equally to such ranks.

Garak would not object to an interlude of sexual activity, either.

“How was the conference?” he asked while Bashir sat on the couch in a slightly less sprawling manner than usual.

“Very educational. A team of Vulcan doctors presented on a promising new technique for treating third-degree plasma burns which I think could cut nerve recovery time by a third.”

Garak neither knew how plasma burns different from others, nor cared enough to ask.

“Denobulans continue their tradition of working with eels, and I must say that while it’s not my style, they achieve some impressive results. I’d be interested in knowing if they have equal success with a gel made of the eel’s emissions, or if the entire eel has to be applied to the damaged skin.”

“If I’m ever suffering from a burn, I’ll thank you not to inflict an eel on me,” said Garak.

Bashir arched an eyebrow. “Not a fan of traditional Denobulan medical practices?”

“I doubt they’ve been tested on Cardassians.”

“That’s a fair point, actually.”

Garak could think of better ways to spend the evening. To that end he allowed the path to their _malon anbar_ to open, and a very strange thing happened: nothing. They rarely used words to suggest moving, as it was simple enough to make the intent clear by permitting Iloja’s shimmering road to appear. And a very obvious road it was, too.

The multiverse was closed to them, which hadn’t happened since they first realized they were bound by a _malon anbar_. To say Garak was alarmed would be a significant understatement.

There was a very real possibility the man sitting on his couch wasn’t Julian Bashir at all.

He presented a look of moderate fatigue, because if the creature before him was a Changeling, taking it to his bed would be most distasteful. He would without hesitation if necessary, but if doing so was avoidable, he’d prefer not to be so vulnerable around the enemy. Best to start giving himself the option to decline now, while he tested this worrisome hypothesis.

There was something else off about Bashir – the odds it wasn’t Bashir increased by the moment – now that he’d stopped discussing the conference. Only the keenest observers would have noticed the slight edge of uncertainty. Fortunately, Garak was an exceptionally keen observer.

Very few people were aware he and Bashir were sexually involved. There were rumors, to be sure, but the station was inundated with rumors, so that didn’t mean anything. (Where someone go the idea that Morn and Leeta were involved remained a mystery. Anyone with eyes could see Leeta’s inexplicable interest in Rom.) Presuming the Founders had done their due diligence, a Changeling impersonator could be attempting to work out precisely what level of intimacy was expected.

Not wanting to let paranoia overtake him, as it would be a very unpleasant conversation if this was in fact Bashir, Garak settled on another means of inquiry. “I read a volume of poetry by Drocel,” he lied. “One of Iloja’s contemporaries, I don’t think I’ve mentioned her. She also made liberal use of the phrase ‘shimmering road to another world.’”

“That generation of poets didn’t prize originality, did it?”

This was not Julian Bashir, who would’ve been eager for any new information on the _malon anbar_ , and Garak’s night had taken an unexpected turn for the worse. It was just as well he’d allowed himself some attachment to Bashir, as who knew how long it would’ve taken the doctor’s other friends to determine this was not him? Dax was clever enough to figure it out eventually, O’Brien might have gone weeks without suspecting, and Garak had ascertained in a matter of minutes.

He noted secrets as a potential defense against Changeling infiltration and adopted a new plan. Obviously, he had to warn Captain Sisko immediately without attracting suspicion. He defended poetry for a few minutes, then allowed the Changeling to bring the conversation back to the burn conference it had probably attended, either as Bashir or in some other guise in order to maintain its cover.

The Changeling was very good, but not perfect. It failed to entirely capture the doctor’s complete range of enthusiastic facial expressions when explaining a medical matter, and its attempt to flop an arm casually over the back of Garak’s couch lacked the requisite abandon.

Eventually, Garak began looking at his tablet. It took the Changeling two minutes longer than Garak expected Bashir would have required to pick up on the message. “Oh, I’m sorry, were you in the middle of something?”

Garak adopted his most apologetic tone. “I’d planned to catch up on my work tonight so I would be free tomorrow to enjoy your company.”

“When I was due to return. Of course.”

“You know how it is when I’m in the middle of a design,” said Garak, pleased he had a stylus sitting next to his padd to complement the lie. He was perfectly capable of working through any number of interruptions, and Bashir knew it. Others, however, did not, because it suited Garak to suggest he was easily distracted and prone to complete absorption in his work.

The real Bashir would’ve made a remark to the effect that Garak should have said he was busy some minutes ago. The Changeling nodded and said, “My apologies for not asking if it was a good time.”

“Your enthusiasm for my company is charming as always, Doctor.”

“Then I shall bid you goodnight, and you can continue to defend First Republic poetry over lunch tomorrow.”

It knew Iloja’s era. You couldn’t accuse the Dominion of failing to do its research. This meant that, having made careful study, it deemed paying Garak an immediate visit to be the most convincing action it could take, and Garak thought the rumor mill was working overtime in regards to him and Bashir.

“There’s nothing to defend,” he said. “I will look forward to your company nevertheless.”

He picked up his padd and stylus, calling up an abandoned design for verisimilitude. The Changeling gave him a credible look of nearly concealed wistfulness before leaving his quarters.

While allowing a suitable interval to pass, Garak wondered if the real Julian Bashir was still alive, and if so, how he might ever be found. On the last point, at least, he could count on the joint efforts of the entire station.

It was critical not to arouse suspicion, so he waited far longer than he cared to before exiting his quarters. He was not followed as far as he could tell, but with Changelings, one could never be certain. Though, as this one was pretending to be Bashir, its opportunities for shapeshifting subterfuge would be considerably reduced.

To maintain the façade of pressing work Garak went first to his shop, which was both useful for his alibi and as good a place as any to ensure the Changeling was still in Bashir’s quarters.

It was, presuming of course it hadn’t installed a computer program to throw off its trail, and Sisko was in his own.

Garak hurried across the habitat ring to the suite formerly used by Dukat. It had to be admitted that Garak preferred the present inhabitant, human though he may be. It was generally easier to find someone agreeable when they didn’t want you dead, after all.

He pressed the chime to indicate his arrival.

“Come in,” said Sisko, too quickly for him to have ascertained who was at his door. Humans were absurdly unwary that way, even in the face of the Dominion threat.

The captain was sharing a meal with his son, and not pleased to have it interrupted, at least when Garak was the intruder. “Garak,” he said, unnecessarily.

“I’m sorry to bother you, Captain, but it’s an urgent matter.”

“Let me guess: that’s my cue to leave,” said Jake. Perceptive of the young man.

“It’s also a matter of some delicacy,” said Garak.

Jake stood, plate in hand. “I’ll just take this to go.”

When his son was gone, Sisko gave Garak an unflinching gaze. “This had better be good.”

Did he mean he wanted the positive news first? Garak wasn’t sure if this was another one of those human phrases not to be taken literally. Probably, but it made for a splendid response. “If you insist, the good news is that the Dominion doesn’t have mind probe capabilities. But I really think it’s more important that a Changeling is impersonating Dr. Bashir.”

Sisko’s face darkened. “A Changeling? Since when?”

“Since the imposter returned from the medical conference,” replied Garak.

“You’re certain?”

“Quite.” He had not a single doubt. In this case, he might have even gone so far as to share one if he did.

“Would you care to share why you’re certain?” asked Sisko.

“He did not know about the _malon anbar_.” At the captain’s look of half-confusion – possibly the phrase failed to translate – he clarified, “The private universe.”

“I see,” said Sisko. “And I assume you politely excused yourself and came straight here.”

“It seemed the best course of action, though I did wait long enough to give credence to claiming a great workload.”

“We’re lucky you’re a hard man to fool.” Sisko reached up to tap his combadge, but Garak was quicker. He grabbed the captain’s hand to prevent catastrophe.

“I wouldn’t do that, Captain. The Changeling may have tapped into the communication system and arranged for an alert if certain words are used together.”

It was what Garak would have done, and he shouldn’t have had to spell it out for the captain. Garak had grown to respect Sisko, on the whole and with some remnant misgivings, but sometimes he marveled that the human race hadn’t died off long ago for lack of simple precautions. They were fortunate it was the Vulcans, instead of a race inclined to conquest, with whom they made first contact.

The captain lowered his hand. “This is going to take some time.”


	2. The Bitter Taste of Defeat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This short chapter was a late addition to the story. I hope you enjoy the AU divergence.

Ben Sisko had sworn he wasn’t going to think about Julian Bashir’s Cardassian universe until he absolutely had to, and he’d mostly kept that promise to himself.

Admittedly, his mind had called up the connection when Bashir returned to his lunches with Garak as though the man hadn’t tried to commit genocide and kill Bashir in the process. It would’ve killed Ben, too, and he still hadn’t figured out how Bashir had forgiven Garak so easily.

“I don’t think he’s forgiven him, exactly,” Jadzia had told him. “But Ajilon Prime bothered Julian more than he’s let on. I think he’s afraid Garak is right about war with the Dominion, and having seen how bad even a skirmish is, that prospect is really getting to Julian.”

Ben was also afraid Garak was right about war being inevitable, but he didn’t see how that carried over to whatever it was Bashir had offered which may not have been forgiveness, but looked an awful lot like it from where Ben was standing. He’d told Jadzia as much.

“If Garak is right about the war, what’s to say he isn’t right about how terrible it will be?” she’d asked, and Ben understood.

“Or that our deaths and the extinction of the Founders might end up seeming like a fair trade,” he’d finished. It wasn’t as though the thought hadn’t occurred to him in his darker moments after their return from Qo’noS, quickly banished though it had been.

His old friend had nodded. “And if it’s going to come to that, why shouldn’t Julian enjoy life while he has the chance?”

Ben thought about that conversation now, when he’d just learned a Founder came back pretending to be the doctor. Knowing how very low the odds were they’d ever manage to find Bashir, he thought it was just as well the doctor had enjoyed his life while he could. Just as well he hadn’t cut his ties to Garak, either, because Ben had an uncomfortable suspicion that without the station’s resident operative-turned-tailor, it would have taken much longer to realize a Founder was impersonating Bashir.

It took hours to get everyone in order when they couldn’t use their combadges for all but the most innocent requests. Far longer than Ben would’ve liked, they finally cornered the Changeling in the infirmary, having cut off all other escape routes.

It looked just like Bashir, down to the warring reactions of annoyance at being interrupted versus the respect due his commanding officer. Garak said the Dominion didn’t have mind probe capabilities or this imposter would’ve known about their private universe, but they were still entirely too good at infiltration. They had to have some kind of trick up their sleeves, and Ben wanted to know what it was.

He also wanted it to be anything other than having a Changeling on his station stalking officers for the last year or so.

“Captain, what can I do for you?” The imposter sounded just like Bashir, too. It hit a few buttons in a way the real Julian Bashir would if he was saving his latest work.

Security personnel streamed into the room, and the Founder realized it had been discovered. “You people are much more observant than Klingons,” it said. And then it doused itself in a large cup of something Ben had assumed was a mug of tea placed for verisimilitude.

It wasn’t tea. It was a strong acid which completely destroyed the Changeling so there was nothing left to be studied. Someone was going to complain about that, Ben was sure, but he was just glad the imposter was no longer wearing his CMO’s face.

Garak had unsurprisingly given himself permission to enter the infirmary, and for one very brief moment, as he looked at the sizzling remains, Ben spotted real anger on the Cardassian’s face. Ben hadn’t known Garak cared enough to be so enraged, and it made him feel very slightly better.

Right then, he’d take what he could get.

* * *

 

“Garak told me he checked with a contact in Cardassian space and another with the Interspecies Medical Exchange, but hasn’t found any leads on Julian’s whereabouts,” said Jadzia.

Was there nowhere Garak didn’t have a contact? On second thought, Ben wasn’t sure he wanted to know. If there was one thing he’d learned about command, it was that sometimes ignorance really was bliss.

“He cares enough to be upset that his lover is missing, but not enough to stop from destroying the planet Bashir was standing on,” Ben said. It was the fifth day since the Changeling had returned in Bashir’s place. He was growing concerned that they’d never find Bashir, and it made his casserole taste like bitter failure. They both knew the doctor was probably somewhere in the Gamma Quadrant by now, and the chances of finding him were extremely remote.

Jadzia shrugged. “He’s a Cardassian, and the most pragmatic man I’ve ever met.” She took another bite of the food Ben had dragged her to his quarters to eat.

“And they can’t use their private universe to contact each other?”

“It doesn’t work that way,” said Jadzia. She knew a great deal about how it worked, but Ben had never asked because he’d never wanted to know. “They have to be in close proximity.”

“Damn.”

She was upset about Bashir’s disappearance and had been working every waking moment on ion trails out of Meezan IV, as though there was much she could do with scans from three sectors away. The _Shran_ was looking for Bashir, but that wasn’t as satisfying as being there to do it themselves. Dax had never done well with inaction.  

Jadzia usually enjoyed his cooking, but this time she ate mechanically, as though it was a chore. “It’s not a good outlook, Benjamin.”

He ate by rote, too, only because he knew he couldn’t command the station if he didn’t keep taking bite after bite of fuel. “I know.”

Halfway though, he couldn’t force himself to pick up his fork. Jadzia had given up on her plate as well. They both knew that Garak, whatever his sins, had almost certainly been right about the upcoming war with the Dominion.

And the odds of Julian Bashir being anything but an early casualty were staggeringly against them.


	3. Rage, Rage

Starfleet had added automated security protocols to their runabouts very recently. So recently and surreptitiously, in fact, that Garak had not known about this update.

He’d intended to borrow a runabout. The Terran phrase “it’s easier to beg forgiveness than ask for permission” applied, but unfortunately, someone in Starfleet had decided to take sensible precautions for once, and he ended up caught between two energy fields until security personnel came to apprehend him.

It was personally inconvenient, but he had to commend the enhanced security measures.

Sisko did not seem inclined to grant him the use of a runabout to chase down Tain’s message. It was admittedly a risky mission, but such a description had never bothered Garak.

“Captain, Tain might not be alone. There could be others. Troops from the Cardassian-Romulan fleet, crew members from those Federation ships that disappeared in the Gamma Quadrant, even Dr. Bashir.”

On the last count, Garak was reaching, but he very much wanted to be proven correct. Tragically, he seemed to have acquired the slightest bit of Federation optimism. He would have to do something about that upon his return.

While Sisko did grant him use of a runabout in the hopes that if Tain was alive, Bashir might be as well, he insisted that Commander Worf chaperone Garak’s mission. Garak was not pleased, and it did not escape his notice that Worf wasted no time locking him out of the weapons controls.

There was one thing to be said in favor of Worf: he made no attempts to pry into Garak’s connection to Tain. Only because he was not clever enough to care, true, but Garak was in no position to be picky about his reprieve.

The Klingon was more interested in the possibility of rescuing Bashir. “Do you truly believe Dr. Bashir may still be alive?”

Asking Garak for truth. He really didn’t pay attention, did he? “If Tain is still alive, I don’t see why the doctor wouldn’t be.”

It was a possibility. Admittedly, Bashir might have gotten himself killed doing something foolishly noble – that would be just like him – or might have been summarily executed after his imposter was discovered, as the Dominion would have no need to keep him around for information and observation related to his replacement. However, Tain was alive, or had been quite recently. This suggested the Dominion was not quick to eliminate its prisoners. Garak thought they might be disinclined to kill off any potential sources of information for future infiltration, which meant Bashir could indeed still be alive.

Whether he was in the same location as Tain was another matter. It didn’t seem wise to keep Alpha Quadrant prisoners together (how many had they acquired by now, he wondered), where they might work together to escape. Then again, humans and Cardassians were not known for a history of successful cooperation.

Moreover, in Garak’s analysis, the Dominion’s greatest weakness was its hubris. They might have put their Alpha Quadrant prisoners together in the hopes that interactions among the group would prove enlightening for future infiltration, and rested assured in the impossibility of escape.

He wanted to find Bashir alive. Garak felt the doctor’s absence more than he would ever admit, though he had an uncomfortable suspicion Dax was aware after he’d volunteered to work with her to search for any leads (of which there were none). His lunches for the past month had been so lacking in stimulating conversation that he’d taken to eating in his shop, away from eyes which kept falling on the empty chair across from his own.

Ziyal tried to cheer him, and how Dukat fathered such a sincerely compassionate young woman Garak would never understand. She was charming in her own way, of course, and he enjoyed her company to be sure, but she did not offer any exciting challenge to his intellect, so when compared to Bashir, she was not such an invigorating lunch companion.

He wasn’t certain who he wanted to rescue more, Bashir or Tain, and that thought disquieted him greatly because it should have been an easy choice. Only one of them could end his exile. That it was not the one who had ever been pleased to see him ought to be of no consequence.

No, Tain must be his priority, if he found himself forced to choose, which he very much hoped he did not.

“Chief O’Brien believes the Changeling impersonating Bashir intended to weaken the station’s defensive capabilities in such a way as to avoid detection,” said Worf.

Garak knew this. “And wanted to fake blood test results to allow greater infiltration of Starfleet, I suspect.”

Worf scowled. “The Dominion is devious.”

“They make full use of their advantages,” said Garak, and he then proceeded to amuse himself by feigning interest in attending Starfleet Academy.

* * *

 

Tain was his usual insufferable self. Two years as a Dominion prisoner hadn’t softened his imperious attitude in the least, and Garak resolved he would stop seeking his father’s approval. He was obviously never going to get it, but the constant pursuit was going to get him killed one of these days.

That day might be quite soon, if the Dominion had the good sense to destroy the runabout. Garak did not like relying on such a fickle thing as the overconfidence of his enemies.

“By chance is Dr. Bashir here?” he asked.

“He’s in solitary confinement,” said General Martok. “He’ll be released soon.”

Good. Garak might yet accomplish something here, provided they could escape.

The first thing he did, when he saw Bashir, was allow his constant barrier against the _malon anbar_ to fall for just a moment, long enough to recognize the shimmering which meant he was truly in the presence of his _anbaras_.

Bashir gave him a slight smile of recognition. “I’ll run a blood test,” he said. Garak imagined this was standard procedure when prisoners had been separated, to prove they hadn’t been replaced, and it seemed proof that his theory was correct. The Dominion kept its prisoners alive for information. If nothing else, this way it could learn more about the habits of races it was about to fight.

“Not necessary,” said Garak. “You are Julian Bashir.”

“And we’re supposed to take your word for it?” asked a Romulan to whom Garak had not been introduced.

“He discovered the doctor’s imposter,” said Worf, not looking happy to defend Garak’s observational skills.

“And how long did that take?” asked the Romulan.

“Three minutes, give or take fifteen seconds,” replied Garak.

Bashir gave him a look of gratitude and relief. “My replacement didn’t get an opportunity to wreak much havoc, then.”

“A few minor alterations to the station’s shields, which Chief O’Brien fixed in short order. It didn’t have a chance to clear dozens of blood tests and allow further infiltration, if that’s what you’re worried about. Then it committed a dramatic suicide as opposed to submitting to capture.” It had been unfortunate that the Changeling doused itself in such strong acid as to render its remains useless for study, though Garak did have a professional appreciation for such thorough measures.  

They did the blood tests anyway. Garak filed Bashir’s blood type away for future reference, should he live to have any use for it. Then, finally, he got a moment of relative privacy with his _anbaras_ , and he used the opportunity to complain about Tain’s lack of gratitude.

"All my life, I've done nothing but try to please that man. I let him mold me, let him turn me into a mirror image of himself. And how did he repay me? With exile. But I forgave him. And here, in the end, I thought maybe, just maybe, he could forgive me."

He had been a fool indeed.

Bashir said, "From what I've seen of him over the past month he doesn't come across as the forgiving type. But, Garak, I think he might not be so unhappy that you came. I think he’s angry that his message led to you being here alongside him. Maybe this time, the person he hasn’t forgiven is himself.”

That was an interesting possibility, but Garak wasn’t convinced it held much truth. It was, however, good to see Bashir’s boundless optimism hadn’t been ground out of him just yet.

When Martok came to tell him Tain was near death, Garak abandoned conversation with Bashir to rush to Tain’s side, as he always had. He should not expect any satisfaction from this, he knew, unless he counted being a better son than Tain was a father to be very rewarding. That had not proven to be the case thus far.

Bashir followed, although even he had to know a medical miracle was not going to happen with the limited supplies on hand. Probably that human concept of ‘moral support’ at work again, then.

“Are you alone?” asked Tain.

Garak turned to where Bashir had taken a seat, close enough that his superior human hearing would catch every word. It would have been a simple matter to ask him to leave, and he’d have respected the request without argument.

Garak did not ask him to leave. He would never say the words to Bashir, the way humans casually brought up personal truths of great significance. “Incidentally, I believe you’d be interested to know Tain is my father.” No. That was not the Cardassian way and certainly not Garak’s.

He was a sentimental fool, without question, but if he was going to die in a Dominion prison camp (which he well might) and he was never going to get the forgiveness and pride he wanted from Tain, then he was going to give his _anbaras_ the gift of understanding what shaped him into the man he was. It was not such a dangerous secret as it had always been. Not one Garak would have shared with anyone else, but then, Bashir had been in a category unto himself for some time now.

“Yes,” he said. “There’s no one else but you and me.”

Bashir made no reaction to the elimination of Tain’s enemies. He had to have known, on some level, what Garak had done in his past life. That Garak had never taken any pleasure in it was quite beside the point. Garak had always done what was necessary, not what he wanted.

He was a changed man indeed. The old Elim Garak would never have allowed Bashir to hear him utter the irrevocable words, “Father, you’re dying. For once in your life, speak the truth.” But this slowly changing Garak, sentimental fool that he was, was pleased that Bashir would have some idea of the forces which created him.

“I should have killed your mother before you were born. You have always been a weakness I can’t afford.”

Yes, that ought to explain quite a lot to the good doctor.

“So you’ve told me. Many times.” As though he’d needed to hear it so frequently to realize its fundamental truth. When he was young and naïve, he thought Tain cared on some level, or had once, that he’d not gone through with what would have been a very simple murder. He knew better now.

He retained some dignity, because he did not beg when he said, “All I ask is that for this moment, you let me be your son.”

Amazingly, Tain did. “Elim, remember that day… in the country. You must have been almost five.”

“How can I forget it? It was the only day.” He tried not to let the words be washed in bitterness, but wasn’t sure he succeeded.

“I can still see you, on the back of that riding hound. You must’ve fallen off a dozen times. But you never gave up.”

No, giving up wasn’t in his nature. “I remember limping home. You held my hand.” It had been a wonderful day. And he’d thought, for a few foolish hours, that he was truly going to have a father.

He ought to have learned after that first time to stop expecting more than Tain would ever give.

“I was very proud of you, that day.”

No, Tain couldn’t die yet. Garak wanted to know if there was any other day in his life which had given his father even a glimmer of pride.

Or did he? Was it better to think there was a possibility than know for certain that single day was the only occasion?

Well, it made no difference. Tain was dead.

In the end, Garak took some comfort in knowing that his father had been proud of him at least one day in his life. It wasn’t enough, nor the forgiveness he craved, but it was a far sight better than nothing. On his deathbed, at least, his father had acknowledged him.  

“Garak,” said Bashir, then he stopped. Thankfully, because Garak was not in the mood for some trite human remark such as ‘I am so sorry for your loss.’ After a moment, Bashir put a hand on Garak’s shoulder and said the best thing he possibly could have. “None of this will be in my report.”

“I thank you for your discretion,” he said, and began to consider how he could signal the runabout for transport.

* * *

 

Dukat ruling Cardassia as a Dominion puppet! If Garak needed further incentive to escape, it had been provided in multitudes. So he returned to his dungeon and managed – barely – to control his panic. As it turned out, he could not keep both his claustrophobia and the _malon anbar_ , which would’ve been a welcome escape indeed, from overwhelming him. No, it was one or the other, and in the _malon anbar_ they’d die of thirst without ever saving the Alpha Quadrant. If Garak was going to die, it was going to be trying to escape, live, and stop the Dominion.

Bashir had mastered willpower, it seemed, because he alone kept them in their primary universe. In those hours he was strong enough for both of them, and Garak had never respected him more. Not even when the doctor shot him, impressive though that had been.

It was more difficult to work with the shimmering of reality which occurred when he was not in control of the _malon anbar_ , but Garak found the distortion strangely comforting, a reminder that there was a whole wide open universe available to him. It also reminded him that Bashir was just on the other side of the wall, valiantly doing his part to ensure their escape. Everyone else was diligently offering their contributions, so Garak must not fail to complete his task.

The confinement was nothing more than an inconvenience. He would not allow this weakness to interfere with success.

He would live. He would return to the station and do whatever was in his power to stop Dukat from leading Cardassia into ruin. The man’s idiocy was truly unmatched, as anyone with sense could see the Dominion would not respect Cardassia, only use it to achieve the Founder’s goals.

He should have killed Dukat when he had the chance. So what if he’d then died at Klingon hands? It would have been much better for Cardassia.

No, this would not end well, and Garak meant to fight it, just as he meant to repay the Dominion for Tain’s suffering, as he’d pledged. And, too, there was his promise to Ziyal. He did not want to add to her disappointments, though he feared she viewed their relationship differently than he did.

It wouldn’t hurt to get them out before the Jem’Hadar killed Worf, either. The commander’s respect would help Garak’s cause against the Dominion and Dukat, and he’d rather not have to explain to Dax why his claustrophobia meant he delayed their escape long enough that her lover was killed.

When Bashir told him to work faster, Garak realized something had happened in the cell and the doctor still managed to prevent them from slipping into the _malon anbar_. That was impressive willpower. He worked faster, even though he could barely breathe and the walls seemed to creep closer every few seconds.

Finally, just when he was sure he was about to hyperventilate again (and wouldn’t that be dreadfully embarrassing?), he finished, and found himself in the relatively open space of the runabout. This was such a welcome change of situation, he didn’t even mind how bright and cold Starfleet kept its runabouts.

In short order he reasserted his control over the _malon anbar_. Bashir gave him the slightest nod of recognition when the Klingons and Romulan weren’t paying attention.

“Garak,” said Worf. “You did well.”

Now that was interesting. Worf was not known for his skill at or interest in lying. Garak, when he returned the compliment, was not lying either. You couldn’t argue with the sheer stubbornness of the man, that was for certain, and his refusal to yield had admirably distracted the Jem’Hadar, buying Garak more time to reconfigure the signal.

He didn’t usually care for Klingon drinking songs, but he was very curious to hear how General Martok’s came out.

In the end, Garak kept his promises. He escaped, lived, and returned to wonder however to respond to Ziyal’s affection. Not to mention, he still had to figure out exactly how he was going to enact the pledged revenge on the Dominion for Tain’s suffering.

There had been a Changeling aboard the station, masquerading as Quark’s newest dabo girl, but the Chief figured out its plan just in time to stop the Changeling from destroying the Bajoran sun and the larger part of the Alpha Quadrant’s forces.

This was only a minor delay to the war, but Garak had learned of at least one day his father was proud of him, rescued Bashir, and earned respect from a Klingon general and a Starfleet commander (or, if not grudging respect, Worf no longer looked as though he wished to see Garak on the end of his bat’leth, which was a start).

All in all, a productive mission into the Gamma Quadrant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm trying to walk a fine line in this story, with Garak caring more than he ever wanted and fighting it to mixed success. Hopefully that comes across. It's actually *very* difficult to write a caring Garak who stays true to canon.


	4. Ill-Fitting Clothes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all the show had Julian bounce right back from his internment camp experience (and the arguably worse trauma of having his friends not realize he'd been replaced), I don't think that would happen. So while I don't want this story to turn into a long PTSD recovery tale, I do want to add some realism. Here goes.

After a hearty welcome back from everyone, including an enthusiastic hug from Jadzia and a relieved clap on the back from Miles, Julian wanted nothing more than to make sure the infirmary was in order. Then his next priority was to return to his quarters and start the automated cleaning protocols to scour away every trace of Changeling, even if his imposter had only been in his quarters for a short time.

That done, he couldn’t sleep, so he made his way to Garak’s quarters and more or less pounced on the man.

Julian didn’t actually care about the sex per se. What he needed was the connection, the reminder that he was back to his life on the station and no longer in the Dominion hellhole, and maybe Garak understood that, because he took the unprecedented step of… well, cuddling wasn’t precisely the right term, but he laid next to Julian with their arms touching, so it was close enough.

“Why?” asked Julian. He’d been trying to figure out Garak’s reasons for letting him in on the secret of his paternity, and perhaps he was chasing down that answer because it was easier than dealing with the trauma of captivity, but Julian was nothing if not doggedly determined to solve this mystery.

“Why what?”

“You know what I mean.”

Garak shifted with clear discomfort. “Yes, I suppose I do.” He looked at the ceiling for nearly two minutes before speaking again, and Julian knew better than to rush him. “You have theories, I’m sure.”

“Plenty, but they’re no substitute for your truth.” Over the past year, he’d learned that Garak allowed himself to be persuaded, on rare occasions, to share _his_ truth. Ask him for _the_ truth, and he told you it didn’t exist. That might have been another lie, since he’d asked Tain to tell the truth, but it didn’t really matter.

He could see the gentle warping of reality which indicated Garak was ready to move to their private universe, which was only to be expected for this conversation. Julian allowed it to happen. It was so easy now.

Easy when it was the two of them, at least. Keeping them from moving to the _malon anbar_ all by himself had required depths of strength Julian hadn’t known he possessed, and he wasn’t sure how much longer he could have kept it up.

“Our lives are tied together,” said Garak. “I warned you immediately of the threat our _malon anbar_ poses, as is proper. I did not warn you of the threat my paternity poses.”

“A grievous breach of etiquette, if I recall.” Lovers (excepting those of the single encounter variety) were supposed to be informed of threats in which they might get entangled by association. That had definitely come up in two Cardassian novels. Possibly a third, but the references were so oblique Julian couldn’t be certain.

Garak had the grace to look chagrined, and Julian thought that might even be genuine. “Just so.”

“And so, what? You told me when the threat was severely reduced?” Cardassia part of the Dominion, Dukat in charge, Tain dead (most definitely for real this time) – it all added up to make Garak’s secret less explosive than before.

Still, there was something about that which didn’t seem quite right to Julian. Garak didn’t need a reason to keep secrets. He called them part of his identity.

Julian could understand that.

“There are times, my dear doctor, when one must commit a breach of etiquette to ensure one’s own safety.”

He knew all about that, too.

“At a later date, one may… reassess the risks posed.”

Oh God, not this. Couldn’t it have been Garak getting pleasure out of spiting the father who denied him? That would have been so much better.

“Based purely on the individual in question, of course.”

“Of course,” said Julian through a suddenly parched mouth.

He was a hypocrite. He knew this, had made his peace with the reality years ago by blaming it on unjust attitudes and laws which wanted to bar him from helping society in the way he was best suited. True, he’d been forced to confront certain unpleasant realizations since that time, namely, that he bore some responsibility in the matter of taking up a career he knew to be illegal, however unfair and phobic the laws were. He still justified his actions by blaming fear of Augments. And blaming his parents, of course.

He hated it more as time went on, the lying and deceit all wrapped up in the hypocrisy of his entire life, and to deal with this, Julian developed several skills. Chief among them were not thinking about his genetic status unless absolutely required and never using his full abilities except in life-or-death situations, like the delicate transfer of a human fetus to a Bajoran uterus. Miles had no idea he almost certainly owed his son’s perfect health, if not very life, to illegal genetic resequencing. If Julian became the persona, the lie, it didn’t feel quite so false. Enough that he could live with himself, anyway.

It was different with Garak, who had his own secrets. Lying by omission and pretending to be something he wasn’t, by Garak’s standards, was a slow Tuesday. But now here he was, making it clear he let Julian learn one of his most personal secrets – perhaps his _most_ personal secret – out of trust.

And Julian couldn’t do the same. He inhaled deeply and fought for the limited control he had in order to prevent his pulse from racing.

There was a time, earlier in their acquaintance when Julian was still happily blaming his deceptions on everyone else as though two wrongs made a right, where Garak’s admission would’ve felt like a great victory. Now it just reminded him that he had put himself in this situation. He chose Starfleet Medical, one of the most forbidden careers for an Augment, out of all the options for his life, and in so doing he bound himself to constantly lying and keeping people at arm’s length.

That hadn’t seemed so terrible when he was younger, still full of righteous indignation and unwilling to accept his own part in this Faustian bargain, not to mention struggling to make close friends anyway. He knew better now. Lack of good choices wasn’t the same as lack of choices.

His decisions had brought him here, to a point where Garak’s trust was a searing brand on his conscience, and he hadn’t felt like such a hypocrite since he was sixteen.

Still, he had to say something, so he forced out his best pleased tone. “Finally convinced I’m not going to sell your secrets to the highest bidder?” It was the wrong thing to say, he realized immediately, because Garak looked almost… earnest, and Julian could not take that right now.

“Please, Doctor. I never thought that. Rush them to Sisko to be relayed to Starfleet Intelligence, perhaps, but you’re no Ferengi.”

“No,” agreed Julian. “I have very un-Ferengi views on gender equality.”

Garak let him move the conversation away from serious tones, and Julian was pathetically grateful. “Neither do you enjoy grub worms.”

“No.” He was being churlish, almost rudely so and out of character, so he looked over at Garak and offered his thanks by misquoting the Cardassian literary masterpiece he’d slogged through before his abduction. “There is no currency so precious as a secret, and I am not a man prone to wasteful spending.”

“A line which bears a vague resemblance to one penned by Kantar, so I’ll assume this unfortunate rendering was meant to be a quote.”

“Assume what you like,” said Julian.

“On the matter of names,” began Garak, then stopped.

He expected Julian to be thrilled, no doubt, but Julian had a better understanding of the intimacy first names carry than he had when he suggested them, and somehow that level of duplicity was more than he could bear at the moment.

“Now, Garak, we’ve only just returned from a traumatic experience. Let’s not be hasty.”

Blessedly, Garak didn’t argue. He let Julian yawn and suggest returning to his quarters to sleep, and if he took the unusual step of offering, “It’s quite late, you might stay the night,” Julian wasn’t about to complain about that much.

* * *

 

It was easier if he focused on his work rather than take the leave to which he was entitled after his time in the Dominion’s custody. Julian’s first priority was to schedule Captain Sisko for a procedure to deal with his near-constant headaches. Dr. Engel had done a tolerable job with the brain surgery, but it wasn’t up to Julian’s standards. He refused to dwell on why his standards could be so high. (And damn Garak for making him think about his enhancements, anyway.)

Instead, he complimented Engel on solving the immediate crisis while he wasn’t around, and showed her what he did to stop the captain’s incessant headaches. Fortunately, Engel’s ego wasn’t as big as Julian’s had been at her age, not so very long ago, and she took the learning experience well, though he suspected she was beating herself up for the headaches. All doctors had to go through the experience of being not quite good enough. It made them better, Julian believed, once they got through the other side.

Yes, work was good. He knew exactly what he needed to do in the infirmary. Outside of it, where he felt as though he was slightly out of phase with his life and everyone in it, was another matter.

The station was the same, more or less. The reinstated Khitomer Accords were a welcome change, and the end of the Bajor-Cardassia treaty a more troublesome one, but overall not a great deal was different than when Julian had left for Meezan IV.

He, however, was different, and resented it mightily because he wanted to resume his life where he’d left it off. He wanted to laugh while playing darts with Miles, enjoy a good literary debate with Garak, and be amused by Jadzia’s teasing of Worf just before Captain Sisko arrived to start a senior staff meeting.

Instead, he felt… numb. He couldn’t even muster up any emotion over killing that Jem’Hadar he’d stabbed, which he thought ought to be worrisome.

Miles appeared eager to help Julian settle back into life DS9. He was still grateful for Julian’s support when he wrestled with the memories of twenty years that never happened, and obviously meant to be show the same kindness. Julian felt rather horrible about thinking their experiences even compared.

He hadn’t rested until he found an obscure Vulcan technique to ‘archive’ Miles’s memories, then contacted endless Vulcan healers until he found one qualified to mind-meld for the process and willing to come to DS9. It was an enormous success in the end, and Miles was only mildly troubled by the false but utterly real experiences in his head.

That, however, had been an extraordinary case. Vulcan healers couldn’t come help everyone set aside unpleasant memories; there simply weren’t enough practitioners in the galaxy, and Julian would have to muddle through the old-fashioned way.

He didn’t even enjoy darts as much as usual, though he appreciated that Miles filled the awkward silences with proud talk about Yoshi’s latest developmental milestones and Molly’s artistic abilities, which he proclaimed already outstripped his own.

“I tell you what,” said Miles over a drink after they’d ceded the dartboard for the evening, “I may not like Garak much, but he notices everything, and that came in handy.”

“Much?” That seemed generous.

Miles shrugged and took a long drink. “You know what I mean.”

“He’s very observant. It was a relief to know a Changeling hadn’t been running around as me for a month.”

Evidently the Founders adapted their strategy after that failure. They’d sent in another agent, this time as a brand-new employee of Quark’s, a woman who’d never existed at all. Quark had decided he might have to suffer the expense of running identity checks on new hires. Starfleet had decided they needed to upgrade runabout security protocols again with shapeshifters in mind.

As for Julian, he felt like he was wearing borrowed clothes that didn’t quite fit right, only the clothes were his own life.

“I wasn’t sure we’d ever get you back,” said Miles.

“Neither was I.”

“Damned glad we did.”

“I’ll drink to that,” said Julian, and he lifted his glass with a smile that almost felt real. Almost.

* * *

 

Jadzia and Worf had evidently enjoyed themselves that morning, as they’d come to the infirmary grinning and covered in an assortment of minor injuries. Julian was truly glad for Jadzia’s happiness in her relationship, but he tried to think as little as possible about how she and Worf ended up in this shape. There were some mental pictures a man was better off without.

He couldn’t imagine how sex vigorous enough to sprain a Klingon knee, which required considerable force, could be deemed enjoyable. If he ever sprained a knee the sex would be over, but apparently such was only a trifling inconvenience in Klingon lovemaking. It was none of his business whatsoever. Really, he was just grateful they didn’t let themselves get so carried away all the time. The less sex-related injuries Julian had to heal, the less risk he ran of those undesirable mental images taking hold.

Though he did wonder what Klingons did before modern medicine (and modern Klingon medicine was nothing about which the Empire could brag). Limp around on a sprained knee for weeks? Permanently damage themselves every other sexual encounter? It all seemed a bit extreme.

Regardless, this was good. Treating them after an intimate escapade was normal, and Julian desperately wanted normality. As usual, he treated Worf first, because Worf was less comfortable hanging around the infirmary waiting for his turn.

“What did you scratch him with, talons?” asked Julian. Those were some serious incisions, and he reached for a sterilizer.

“Well,” began Jadzia while Worf shifted with unease.

“No, no, forget I asked.” He hadn’t intended to say the words out loud. “I’m happy with my new policy of not inquiring unless medically necessary.”

“As am I,” said Worf.

Yes, this much was normal. If only Julian could say the same about himself.

Four deep scratches and seven minor, one sprained knee, two bruised elbows, and a strained pectoralis major later, he was done with Worf. “Go easy on that knee for the next two days.”

Worf nodded.

“I mean it. Otherwise you’ll end up back here and you’ll have to put up with me saying ‘I told you so.’ Loudly and often.”

“I will refrain from more strenuous activities,” said Worf before making his exit with as much speed as dignity permitted.

“Alright, your turn,” he told Jadzia, grabbing his medical tricorder once more and refraining from pointing out he had barely pronounced Worf’s fully healed from his Jem’Hadar beatings before she put him back in the infirmary. There was no point. “Your pelvis is slightly out of alignment. Lie down. I’ll have to manipulate it manually.”

Once, he might have struggled to remain professional about that particular procedure for this patient. That wasn’t a problem now. No, the issue was how to phrase his concerns delicately. Julian didn’t want to lecture Jadzia about her sex life any more than he wanted lectures on his own. However, something needed to be said.

“I don’t want to intrude on your personal life,” he began, “but I’m slightly worried that a more severe injury of this nature could end up hurting the symbiont.”

Jadzia was tough. Trill, while not notably stronger than humans, had denser bones and muscles which could handle more punishment, but symbionts didn’t have any protection other than the host, and they were more or less bundles of unprotected nerves and brain.

She sobered immediately. “I’ll be more careful,” she said, and he believed her. Jadzia took the symbiont’s life and health very seriously.

“That’s all I ask. Better?”

“Better.”

“Good. Then we can deal with the bruises.” By which he meant the five clearly finger-shaped marks on her upper arm.

“Julian? Not that I don’t prefer having you fix us up, but shouldn’t you be on leave?”

He’d successfully avoided this conversation until now, though he’d known his luck would run out eventually. Miles, at least, knew better than to press. He also liked to throw himself in his work when life wasn’t going well.

“I’m fine,” he said.

Jadzia did not look convinced. “You didn’t come to the talent show in Quark’s last night.”

No, he had not. He’d been too tired to care, what with all the sleep he hadn’t gotten in the internment camp and still couldn’t catch up on due to nightmares and waking up in a panic. He’d given himself a sedative and slept for twelve hours, which hadn’t helped as much as he’d expected.

Besides, the talent show didn’t seem important in the grand scheme of things. Not wanting to get into that, he asked, “How did your magic routine go over?”

“I came in third,” said Jadzia. She was not nearly as concerned about her placement as Julian’s well-being, and usually that felt good, but this time it was suffocating.

“Congratulations.”

“It was profitable enough that Quark is planning another next month.”

“I’ll try to make it to that one.” By which he meant he desperately hoped to be back to enjoying his life by then.

“Julian…”

What was it about her genuine concern which threatened him? He cut her off brusquely. “Turn over, please. That’s a nasty bruise on your shoulder.”

Mercifully, Jadzia stopped prying, and as he ran the dermal regenerator over her bruises, he realized the extent of his problem. He felt threatened because if she got past his façade he wasn’t sure he could put it into place again, and he desperately needed it.

The clinical part of his brain knew he should make an appointment with Counselor Telnorri, and Julian would listen to it. Just as soon as he could be sure he wouldn’t break.

* * *

 

_Two Days Later_

“You have an appointment with Telnorri in ten minutes.”

Julian looked up from the latest Starfleet Medical bulletin to where Miles was standing in the doorway to his office. “No, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. I booked it.”

“Miles…”

“You made me go and it helped. I’m just returning the favor.”

“How can you even begin to compare our experiences?” What Miles went through was magnitudes more horrifying, after all.

Miles shrugged. He didn’t like talking about this kind of thing, so it spoke volumes that he was there at all. “PTSD is PTSD.”

“Yours was so much worse,” Julian said, and immediately regretted it.

“Oh no you don’t.” Miles stepped closer to emphasize his point. “Don’t try to make yourself invincible. You can tell yourself I went through worse. I told myself it wasn’t real. Doesn’t make a bit of difference.”

Julian wanted to argue, but he was too tired. He couldn’t keep giving himself strong enough sedatives to block out the nightmares, and the milder ones helped him sleep but only for a few hours. And perhaps, though he was loath to admit it, he knew Miles was right.

“Alright,” he said. “I’ll go.”

“Good.”

Not one to go back on his word, Julian arrived for his appointment and proceeded to spend the next twenty-five minutes walking Telnorri through what happened to him in his best clinically detached tone.

“That’s a very thorough report,” said Telnorri. “Not one single indication of emotion, though.”

“I… try not to dwell on that.”

“Oh? Any particular reason?”

Julian watched a ship dock out the window, and desperately wished for his life back. He didn’t want to get into his fears, but he knew he wasn’t really okay and he knew Telnorri had Miles’s confidence, so he finally admitted, “If I start, I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” said Telnorri.

“I want my life back. I want to be able to sleep alone without a strong sedative. I want to put it all behind me.”

“You can, just not instantly. In the meantime, if you can’t sleep alone, it would be helpful to have someone trustworthy keep you company.”

“That doesn’t appear to be a problem.” Inasmuch as Garak could be called trustworthy, anyway.

“Doesn’t appear to be? Can you elaborate?”

“We haven’t exactly talked about it.” For all he and Garak talked, it wasn’t about such personal topics. Julian hadn’t brought up his month in Dominion custody. Garak hadn’t offered anything further on Tain and probably never would.

“It might be a good idea,” said Telnorri.

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

He wasn’t convinced it would happen. With anyone else, maybe, but Garak? It wasn’t how they operated. Four and a half years of friendship, two of sex (which, unless Julian was very much mistaken, had taken on mutual exclusivity of late), over a year as _anbarad_ , and they hadn’t even bothered to talk about what they were to each other. They just… were.

Julian was content with that. It did, however, mean that a long chat about what Miles had probably correctly identified as PTSD wouldn’t fit into the established parameters of his relationship with Garak.

Telnorri was smart enough not to push. Instead he asked, “How are you feeling?”

“Exhausted. Short-tempered.”

“Give me emotions.”

He looked out the window again, working up the strength to open that Pandora’s box. Telnorri waited patiently until Julian at last said, “Mad as hell.”

“And that is the first step toward getting your life back.”

Julian hoped with all his being that the counselor was right.


	5. The Problem with Attachment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have been tweaking this chapter for days, and I'm still not 100% happy with it, but the time has come to let it go. If Garak seems a touch off this chapter, blame it on his exhaustion.

Garak was worried about Bashir, who’d been far less pleased by his (unprecedented and very possibly unwise) trust and the idea of using first names than expected. So much so, in fact, that after considering the remark about their traumatic experience, and another night where Bashir clearly didn’t want to sleep in his own quarters but kept Garak awake two-thirds of the night, Garak set himself to researching human responses to such unpleasantries.

Seven hours later, he decided human reactions to trauma were so varied as to include absolutely everything. How did they even function? He sincerely hoped Bashir made a quicker-than-average recovery. It did seem, from his reading, that Starfleet officers tended to be the more psychologically resilient examples of their species, or they’d all be in some kind of human reparative therapy hospital, but this was alarming all the same.

For one thing, Garak couldn’t function if he suffered through his present level of poor sleep for the next several months. Bashir obviously didn’t want to be alone, and Garak trusted (that again; he really was going soft) his _anbaras_ enough to sleep next to him. Bashir wasn’t going to kill him while he slept.

If nothing else, the evidence would be quite damning, and Bashir was clever enough not to be so obvious. Moreover, Garak expected Bashir wouldn’t kill him unless he deemed Garak once a threat to the lives of others, which he was certainly not while lying awake wishing his bedmate would stop thrashing about.

No, worry about being killed in slumber was not the problem. Constant interruption of his rest was, and Garak began to wonder if he could convince O’Brien and Dax to take turns accompanying the doctor at night. True, they each had their usual sleeping partners, but it would be for the greater good, would it not? He didn’t think Worf would be particularly sympathetic to the situation, but Dr. O’Brien was not a lost cause in that regard.

Garak spent another night awake next to a very restless Bashir who cried out in his sleep and disturbed the bed in any number of ways. Consequently, he was not refreshed. He really ought to return to sending Bashir back to his own quarters. It was the only sensible thing to do.

Regrettably, every time he intended to make the suggestion, Garak remembered Bashir doing the very opposite of sensible when he went to Tain (not having the slightest clue how risky that was, nor that Tain permitted it only because doing so amused him) seeking to save Garak’s life. The comment thus died unsaid. Repeatedly.

He was beginning to grow concerned that this was what having a life companion felt like. As though he needed another weakness. It had not escaped him that he was becoming troublingly sentimental in his middle age, and he wondered if at least part of it could be attributed to sleep deprivation. Unfortunately, that didn’t explain why he’d allowed Bashir to know the truth of his parentage.

Sentiment it was, then. Well, it wasn’t as though this development would interfere with his return to Cardassia now that Tain was dead. Either his exile would never be lifted, or he would return under some drastically changed future he couldn’t yet foresee. Allowing himself some attachment to Bashir was unlikely to alter his circumstances, and it made his life tolerable, notwithstanding the current lack of sleep. He was fonder of the man than he would have admitted under even the most extreme duress.

If he was being perfectly honest with himself, he had larger problems over which to worry at the moment. He suspected that the time might soon come when, in order to save Cardassia from Dukat’s astounding lack of foresight, he would have to work with the Federation against his own people. (Presuming he survived to have the option at all, of course.) He was still working on alternatives, because he did not like this prospect in the least, but for all its faults, the Federation was vastly preferable to the Dominion.

Compared to this, a bit of sentiment over Bashir seemed insignificant. Tain would not have thought so, but then, he’d objected to Garak experiencing anything approaching contentment on general principle.

Despite all this, Garak had a business to run and a new shipment of fabrics to organize, so he went to work at his normal hour.

Dax was his first customer. He took on his best service smile and asked, “Commander, how can I help you?”

“It’s more how I can help you.”

The line was similar to one traditionally used as the opening gambit of blackmail, so even though Dax probably had no idea about the finer points of Cardassian extortion, Garak thought his concern could be forgiven. “Oh?”

“It’s about Julian.”

Had she been reviewing his terminal’s search history? Garak had safeguards against such intrusions, of course, but one could never be entirely certain they were impenetrable.

“No need to panic,” she said.

“Wherever did you get the idea I was panicking?”

“You looked too calm.”

This was the problem with letting people know you, even the slightest bit. It made a person so very vulnerable, and Garak detested vulnerability. He would allow himself one partial exception, Bashir, and one exception only. Dax mustn’t be able to read him so well in the future.

He decided to go for disarming honesty. “I thank you for alerting me to that misstep.”

“Relax, Garak. He’s doing as well as can be expected. I know you care about him, and he’s not himself right now.”

“No,” agreed Garak. Bashir wanted only the most superficial of conversations but didn’t want to be alone. He was short of temper, picked at his food until he returned most of it to the replicator for recycling, and managed to desire physical intimacy in the same breath as apparent disinterest.

Garak was truly at a loss, so he was willing to listen very intently to any advice Dax might offer.

“I don’t know how Cardassians handle the kind of experience Julian suffered,” she said. “You’re very secretive people.”

“Might I observe that your own species is not known as the most forthcoming in the Federation?”

Dax smiled sadly. “We’re not so different from humans when it comes to this. The best things you can do for Julian right now are be there for him unless he makes it very clear he wants to be alone, and forgive his sharper remarks. Don’t take them personally.”

“Luckily, that is a talent of mine.”

“One of many, I’m sure,” said Dax, and she left him without a lecture, thankfully.

He was still mulling over her words when another unprecedented event happened: Chief O’Brien walked through his door.

“Look here, Garak. If I get a hint of you being less than supportive to Julian right now, the environmental controls in your quarters won’t work for a year, do you understand?”

“Why, Chief, speaking in threats is so very Cardassian of you. I’m pleased you took the time to understand my culture better,” said Garak. The threat was blatant to a very un-Cardassian degree, to be sure, but the remark served perfectly to discomfort the chief.

O’Brien flushed. “Just don’t leave him hanging after everything he’s put up with from you,” he said, and stalked out.

That the doctor’s friends were so worried only increased Garak’s concern. Not knowing what else to do, he decided to take Dax’s advice and do his best to be a steady presence for his _anbaras_. Bashir had done the same and more for him, years ago.

As if Garak didn’t have enough problems between Dukat and the Dominion leading Cardassia into ruin, Bashir’s erratic behavior, and, in his spare time, mourning a father who may or may not have truly hated him, there was the business with Ziyal.

Major Kira stormed into his shop the day after Dax and O’Brien’s visits. “You,” she said.

“Good afternoon, Major,” he replied in his most disarming tone.

“You are not allowed to touch Ziyal.”

Garak really wasn’t in the mood for this. “I am aware of the unfortunate direction her affections have taken, but I assure you, my interest in Ziyal is purely avuncular.”

“I don’t believe you.” He hadn’t expected her to. “She chose you over her father!”

Not the wisest choice Ziyal could have made, though her father was so repugnant it was hard to disagree with the decision. “Not because I have led her to believe our relationship is romantic,” he said, which was completely true. He’d have to find a way to let her down gently, while still promising that he was delighted to have her in his life.

Attachments made everything so complicated.

Kira put her hands on his table and leaned in with her most menacing glare. Garak was not unduly alarmed until she said, “I can have your residence permit revoked.”

That _was_ concerning. He sighed. “Major, I have no desire for Ziyal in any fashion beyond the strictly platonic.”

“I still don’t believe you.”

Obviously. “She is a charming young lady.” Too young, in fact. Garak was not opposed to younger lovers as such, but Ziyal was barely more than a girl, and Garak preferred fully-fledged adults on the infrequent occasions he shared a bed. Which, for nearly two years, he had only done with Bashir, because there was always a risk with these things, and he saw no need to chance random sexual encounters when the doctor exceeded all his needs.

“Yes. And she’s a charming young lady you’re not going to touch, or date, or whatever it is you might be thinking of doing. I have a friend in the alien residency department.”

“You don’t need to threaten me. I didn’t encourage her.” In fact, he’d tried to discourage her, though it hadn’t been a success by any measure.

“Oh? Are you going to say she’s not your type?” asked Kira with obvious incredulity. She wasn’t one for subtly.

“She is not.”

“Young, attractive, infatuated with an idealized version of you? That’s not your type?”

When she worded it that way, her version of Garak sounded positively lecherous. He gave her his put-upon look, which wasn’t difficult because it was quite close to his current feelings. “If you must know, my preferences do not lie with the female.”

This was largely true. There had been a few exceptions over the years, granted, but they were rare and Ziyal was not one of them. He was fond of her, but he did not want her the way Kira assumed. She was too young and not nearly enough of an intellectual challenge for Garak’s taste.

Kira blinked and said nothing for a moment. His sexual proclivities were no one’s business except his own, but the information might well dissuade Kira from having him evicted from the station, which he needed to prevent for any number of reasons, including remaining in a position to be of some use to Cardassia while Dukat was selling the entire Union to the Dominion for his own personal glory.

“If you’re lying about this…”

“Ask around. I’m sure Odo has a file on me which will confirm my statement.”

The major still scowled, but straightened out of her patented threatening posture. “Have you told Ziyal?”

“Not as such.” He’d been studiously keeping all of their interactions away from the realm of romance or sex, but Ziyal did not have a great deal of experience with Cardassian socialization, so perhaps she hadn’t realized. Or perhaps she simply hadn’t wanted to realize. “These things are not traditionally stated outright in Cardassian circles.”

“Ziyal is half Bajoran, and we _do_ say things outright.”

He was aware, and it was all so unpleasantly direct. “Very well. I imagine this means you don’t think she will come to realize of her own accord that my interest in her is avuncular, and you’re going to insist I tell her.”

“You got that right. I’m watching you.” And with that, Kira turned on her heel and exited his shop, leaving him to resolve against personal involvement with any more people. He already had quite enough trouble as it was.

* * *

 

Garak was not having a good evening. Ziyal had cried when he explained his firmly platonic feelings towards her, and he had therefore spent far longer than he intended assuring her that he was very fond of her and wished to continue spending time with her. As he had with Kira, he omitted to mention that there were rare exceptions to his disinclination towards the female. It was a small lie which made everything much easier, and in the end, Ziyal asked for a few days to sort herself out but insisted he still attend a concert with her the following week.

He hadn’t asked if she regretted staying on the station, because he wasn’t sure he wanted to know the answer. Better to allow the possibility that she saw her father, at least in part, for who he was, and Garak believed she was wise enough to know that she would never truly be welcomed on Cardassia. This was Cardassia’s loss.

After that draining conversation, he would have liked a rousing debate with Bashir. He got a debate, yes, but it wasn’t flirtatious. No, Bashir instead offered a scathing commentary delivered with serious ire.

“So you see, Legate Precet is the personification of everything wrong with society,” he finished.

Garak began once more to doubt the wisdom of forming attachments. Life had been simpler without them. He looked at the angry man across from him who hadn’t even been able to wait until lunch to eviscerate _The Rise and Fall of Legate Precet_ and said, “Doctor, I’m not sure we’re speaking of the same book.”

“We are. You just don’t like what I have to say about it.”

That much was accurate. “Precet is a flawed character, yes, but aren’t we all?”

“He throws people in jail to cover up his mistakes!”

“And he pays for it, in the end.”

“He leaves them to rot away, wondering if they could die at any time, if there’s any hope of escape, because he can’t face his own failures.”

He never should have suggested this book. He’d been meaning to read it for years, but having no knowledge of it, he hadn’t known it featured imprisonment. That was an understandably sore subject for Bashir right now.

“I am sorry,” he said. “I wasn’t aware imprisonment was so integral to the plot.”

“You hadn’t read it before?” asked Bashir, surprised by this turn in the conversation.

“No.” And he was going back to reading books before suggesting them to anyone else. What had he been thinking to attempt otherwise?

Oh yes, he’d been thinking he might be killed by the Dominion, now including Cardassia, any day, and he wanted to read _The Rise and Fall of Legate Precet_ before he died.

The admission mollified the doctor somewhat. “I don’t think either of us is at our best right now. Maybe we should play chess.”

Garak nodded his agreement. Three-dimensional chess was one of humanity’s better achievements in the realm of entertainment, and he appreciated a game of strategy. Although, if Bashir’s remark was an attempt to discuss Tain (which Garak expected at any time), he might change his mind about staying for chess.

No, that wasn’t true. Bashir had muttered something too low for Garak to catch it its entirety about sleeping alone in his quarters reminding him of solitary confinement, and it was in the station’s best interest for the CMO to be well-rested. Garak was aware this was a thin justification for wanting to feel as though he was of some use to the man who’d done so much for him, but he didn’t care.  

Besides, he wasn’t entirely sure O’Brien had been lying about damaging the environmental controls in his quarters if he failed to offer adequate support.

“You think Dukat is wrong, don’t you?”

The topic was preferable to Tain, at least. Bashir had learned something of not prying too indelicately over the years. “I can’t recall a time I thought Dukat was right.”

“He wants to bring in an outside power to help him crush his enemies,” said Bashir. “I don’t know about Cardassian history, but that has rarely worked well for humans.”

“Dukat is not a student of history.” Or anything but his own ego. “The Dominion does not care about Cardassia. To them it is nothing but a convenient foothold in the Alpha Quadrant, and they will expect Cardassians to give up all that we are to serve their so-called gods.”

“A very poor bargain.”

It was, but Garak did not care to discuss it any longer. The subject was difficult enough and he would rather set it aside for a brief reprieve of more enjoyable considerations.

“How’s Ziyal?” asked Bashir as he set up the board, in an obvious attempt to find neutral conversation. “She seemed very relieved to have you back.”

“Major Kira threatened my continued residence on the station if I did not disabuse her of her romantic fantasies.” Very flattering fantasies, but quite ridiculous for any number of reasons. She might be too young to realize that she only wanted Garak because he was a Cardassian who treated her well, but he was not so blind to the obvious.

“She has a crush on you?”

“I’m sorry, that didn’t translate.”

“When someone is romantically interested in another person, we call it a crush. It has connotations of being rather juvenile.”

“That is a very strange colloquialism.”

“I suppose it is,” said Bashir, belatedly realizing that this topic was not so neutral as he’d assumed. “But it’s not the point. Kira’s gotten even more protective of Ziyal while I was gone.”

“Ziyal is far too young for me. It’s insulting that Kira thinks I would take advantage of her, really.” Or it would have been, if he cared enough about the major to worry over her opinion of him being so low she thought he would prey on a vulnerable young woman for his own amusement.

He would only undertake something so distasteful in the service of a greater good, not his own base need to be flattered. He was not so crass, though in fairness, Kira’s opinions of Cardassians were shaped by lechers like Dukat. No, his fondness for Ziyal was altogether different.

“Oh? I thought you liked younger lovers,” said Bashir, doing a poor job of attempting a flirtatious tone. He really was struggling to adjust to his return if he couldn’t even manage that, and Garak’s concern grew.

“Younger is one thing. Ziyal is very recently an adult by Cardassian reckoning, and you are not young enough to be my child.”

“I might be if you started having sex young.”

Garak gave him an assessing look. “I suppose you have a narrow range of ages you believe me to be.” And he’d just provided further information for it, if Bashir realized he’d been truthful.

“Somewhere between forty-four and forty-nine Cardassian years.”

How unsettlingly accurate. Bashir’s cleverness made him enjoyable company, but unfortunately it also made him adept at piecing together truths Garak would rather he not. “In any event, it was not a pleasant conversation. Ziyal inherited the Bajoran ability to cry.”

“Not used to dealing with tearful women, I take it.”

“No. Should I have asked you for pointers ahead of time?”

“I’ve never been very successful there myself,” admitted Bashir. “Do you think Ziyal will be alright?”

“I believe so. I have assured her that I wish to continue spending time with her.”

“Really? You just said, “Sorry, you’re too young,” and she’s perfectly fine?”

Ah, the concept of being fine was yet another sore point for the doctor at the moment. Garak added it to his ever-growing list of subjects to avoid. “No. I informed her that my preferences do not lie with the female, and she agreed she is most definitely female, which presents a fundamental problem of compatibility.”

“What about that Andorian trader a few years ago?” asked Bashir. “I know you were flirting with her. Lying to Ziyal isn’t going to help.”

“I did not lie. I may have omitted to mention that there are very rare exceptions, but that would only make everything more difficult. Sometimes a finessing of one’s truth is the kind option, Doctor.”

Bashir frowned but didn’t argue the point. He really wasn’t at his best, and Garak, much as he would’ve liked a distraction, decided to take Dax’s advice and not push.

* * *

 

Twenty years ago, Garak had gotten by on minimal sleep for much longer than nine days. Cardassians did not worry over youth the way so many species did (humans were positively obsessed with it), but he did occasionally wish for the physical ease of his third decade. Well into his fifth, he found that adequate sleep had grown in importance. True, he had acquired more wisdom in the intervening time, but it did not help him stay alert enough to complete Crewman Chen-Mulhaney’s holosuite costume.

In desperation, he’d procured the most caffeinated beverage available at the Replimat, which was unfortunately raktajino, and tried his best not to taste it. Thereafter, he began to plan how he could sleep. The late morning was rarely busy; he might close for a short while and set up a cot in the back. No, that was too obvious. Better to open an hour later and sleep when Bashir had gone off to prepare for his duties. He could always claim it was a strategic business decision.

Let it never be said Garak did anything of importance in half measures. If he was going to allow himself attachment and sentiment, why not get so invested in Bashir’s wellbeing that he gave up his own rest? It was a properly Cardassian sacrifice, at least.

With effort, he managed to conceal the extent of his exhaustion from Bashir, if only because the doctor was not at his most observant. No respectable sacrifice should be flaunted.

Still, when Bashir announced, “I’m going to Bajor tomorrow,” Garak’s immediate thought was that he could sleep.

“Any particular reason?” he asked.

“I took a few days of leave before the captain ordered me to take twice as many. It’s just a day trip, but Miles and I managed to get a holosuite for four hours the following afternoon.”

Therefore, while Bashir spent his day at a Bajoran nature preserve, Garak slept for an extravagant ten hours without a single interruption and felt much better for it.

After that, he began to sleep for two hours in the early evening, before welcoming Bashir to his quarters or going to Bashir’s. (With sensible precautions to ensure their habit of shared nights was not observed, naturally. He had not taken leave of all his sense.) It was not a substitute for what he missed at night, where he managed at most another two hours in total, but it was enough that he didn’t have to force down more than one raktajino a day.

Ziyal recovered quickly from their conversation regarding the limited nature of their relationship, which led Garak to believe her infatuation was not as deep as she’d expected. This did not surprise him. As it was, the young lady remained far more troubled by Kira’s opinion of her father.

“Do you think my father is a bad person?” she asked.

He did, if not for reasons with which Major Kira would agree. Dukat was offering Cardassia to a dangerous enemy for his own personal glory. He was either mentally deficient, lacking in any sense of properly dutiful Cardassian ethics, or (and most likely) both.

It would be inexcusably rude to say such a thing to his daughter, even if she did not appreciate the nuances of Cardassian socialization. (Another point against Dukat, if a rather minor one in the larger list of his misdeeds.) Garak therefore remarked, “Your father and I are not in the habit of sharing a worldview, I’m afraid.”

“It has to be serious when you and Kira agree on something.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Why not? You both think the Dominion alliance is terrible.”

Garak did not outwardly cringe at the term. An alliance was one thing. Those were made and broken all the time. No, in the internment camp, Cardassians had been congratulated on being Dominion citizens, their very identities subsumed. It was intolerable.

“For different reasons. Major Kira is worried for Bajor, where I am concerned only with Cardassia.”

“You’re both convinced this is dangerous for the Alpha Quadrant.”

He could have denied it, but it would have been patronizing, and Ziyal hated being treated like a child that way, so Garak refrained. “As much pleasure as I take in being proven right, I would very much like to be wrong in this case.”

“But you don’t think you are.”

“No,” he admitted.

Ziyal frowned and traced patterns in her yamok sauce.

“Now, you said something about an underappreciated First Republic artist to whose work I need an introduction?” Garak was more interested in literature than the visual arts, but he was happy to discuss the latter with Ziyal all the same.

At least he could enjoy pleasant conversation with one person at present.

* * *

 

Bashir’s company continued to be less delightful than usual. Garak, who well recalled a time he was extremely disagreeable and yet Bashir remained, offered easy conversation and literary arguments of only minor significance, the comfort of his body and little distractions of new replicator patterns to test at dinner. Most importantly, he pretended not to have any idea that Bashir visited both Counselor Telnorri and a Bajoran vedek known for offering wisdom to the distressed.

After three long weeks of this, the doctor turned to him in the _malon anbar_ and said, “I’m sorry I’ve been difficult lately.”

“Have you? I hadn’t noticed,” said Garak.

“Not up to your usual lying standards tonight, I see.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Bashir almost laughed, finally without any bitterness. Garak was relieved, also without any bitterness toward himself for wanting the connection to another being.

“I haven’t put it all behind me yet,” continued the doctor, “but I’m making progress, and I want to thank you.”

“Don’t mention it,” said Garak, hiding his truth behind the human expression. He really would prefer Bashir not mention it, as such would save him the spinning of a true lie as to why he had taken it upon himself to be his _anbaras_ ’s caretaker, and he had a feeling Bashir wouldn’t have accepted a completely false lie for this matter.

His regrettably not brief enough tenure in Internment Camp 371 had changed him in ways he’d finally, in between worrying about Cardassia and Bashir, discerned to his satisfaction. He was twice an exile now. More than an exile, and worse: an avowed enemy of the head of the Cardassian state, even if said head of state did bear his own best interest in mind instead of Cardassia’s. It would never cease to pain Garak, he knew, to be cast aside, to watch his beloved homeworld and people abused by an egotist of uncommon proportions.

The Dominion did not care about Cardassia or her people, and joining the Dominion would end badly for Cardassia one way or another. Victory as a Dominion subsidiary was defeat presented in more appealing terms. It was intolerable, and Garak began to accept that if his world was to thrive again, the Federation must win the coming war. In order to offer his people a future of their own making, he would very likely be forced to work against them.

As always, Garak would do what Cardassia required of him, even work with Starfleet.

And yet, he was not the same man who had watched his people withdraw from Terok Nor, not the man who had slowly grown to respect certain members of the station’s crew, nor even the man who had first recognized he shared a _malon anbar_ with Bashir.

He no longer had a father to disappoint, either. Mila… well, she’d always watched Garak become an agent with a mixture of pride, resignation, and grief. She would not be so horrified to learn he’d allowed himself the formerly unforgiveable sin of attachment. She might even be relieved. He dared not contact her, not with Dukat and the Dominion in charge. It wouldn’t do to risk calling attention to her. Far safer for her to be a mere housekeeper of no importance at all.

War was coming to the Alpha Quadrant, on a scale perhaps never before seen, war which he gave everyone on the station very low chances of surviving. In the end, enjoying his simultaneously simple and complicated relationship with Julian Bashir no longer seemed like such a large concern when compared to the fate of the quadrant and imminent death.

So he offered the man a real smile and asked, “Do you think we could redecorate our humble facet of the multiverse? It’s rather uninspired.”

“How do you think we’ll accomplish that?”

“Willpower, of course. How else?”


	6. A House of Lies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've tried to keep each chapter contained to a single POV, but that simply did not work for this chapter. Garak insisted on having his say. ;)

Julian’s life was starting to feel like it fit better. Not perfectly, but no human could be expected to completely bounce back from a month in a prison camp three weeks after returning, and that wasn’t even getting into his stint in solitary confinement.

Counselor Telnorri told him to be kind to himself while he reestablished a sense of normalcy, to take one day at a time, and enjoy the small victories. Vedek Reva, who had her own experience with imprisonment during the Occupation, told him that the sooner he accepted his life would never be exactly the same, the sooner he could find his new equilibrium. Her statement that Internment Camp 371 would always be with him but need not define him resonated, and Julian was working on the ‘not defining him’ part. It would take some time.

He’d spent entirely too many hours desperately to occupy his mind with safer topics. By now he’d worked out a highly detailed evolutionary theory for why Cardassians had skin on most of their bodies, but scales covering the neck and torso ridges. That was an unusual combination of the mammalian, which Cardassians were by standardized measures, with the reptilian, of which they retained a few minor traits. It was also a much more comfortable train of thought than revisiting his days in solitary.

Garak hadn’t left him to sleep alone, for which he would be eternally grateful. Julian knew he was terrible company, but he didn’t want to be alone for long stretches because it reminded him of solitary confinement.

He was having a better day, by his recent standards. He’d managed to truly enjoy a few games of darts, and that was one of Telnorri’s small victories. When Miles talked about the pains he took to make sure Molly wasn’t jealous over the attention her brother got, Julian’s first thought this time was _Miles is a good father_ instead of _That’s hardly a problem worth worrying about_. Progress.

He was just about to ask if Miles’s older brother had been jealous of him (partly because he was curious, partly because he didn’t even want to think about himself as a father) when Lewis Zimmerman showed up. Julian recognized the man from his remarkable work on the EMH.

“Dr. Bashir, I presume?”

“That’s me.”

“I’m Lewis Zimmerman, Director of Holographic Imaging and Programing at the Jupiter Research Station, and I’m here to make you immortal.”

And to think, the day had started off so promisingly when he’d managed an entire six hours of nightmare-free sleep.

* * *

 

Why, of all the people, did Zimmerman have to choose him? And moreover, why did the man have such terrible timing? Julian was only just beginning to recover from a traumatic experience, and he wasn’t eager to have his entire life examined, especially not by someone as surly as Zimmerman.

Not that he would ever be eager to have Zimmerman delve into his life in great detail, but still.

He ended up pacing in Garak’s shop, where he’d retreated because being alone with his thoughts could only lead to trouble at the moment, even if he couldn’t share the most important among them.

“If Starfleet models its new medical hologram after you, that would give you a certain visibility,” said Garak, calmly applying his laser cutter to a swath of heavy fabric in dark red which looked too much like drying blood for Julian’s taste.

“Yes. That’s the problem.” Well, one of the problems. It was becoming a long list.

“Perhaps. Visibility is not without its benefits, Doctor. It offers some measure of protection against those who would spirit you away, never to be seen again. Conspicuous absences are problematic.”

“‘Accidents’ can still happen.”

Or Zimmerman could decide he needed to see Julian’s report cards from primary school and start to wonder at the notable difference between first and second grade reports. Different schools, of course, halfway across Britain in fact, and that would just add to the suspicion.

Nobody had ever questioned Julian’s success until now. Was he just being paranoid? He didn’t know anymore. He should have gone into civilian xenozoology. Much less forbidden a career than Starfleet Medical, and therefore less likely anyone would ever care enough to discover his secret.

“Of course,” said Garak.

Why had he been so hell-bent on Starfleet and medicine, anyway? His mother had begged him not to. “It’s too risky, Jules,” she’d told him, and he’d coolly informed her that the entire resequencing had been dangerous to him, so she obviously had a high tolerance for risk.

He never would’ve been happy as a xenozoologist, not truly. Medicine wasn’t just his career, it was his calling. And he loved the adventure of Starfleet, even if it had involved far more incarceration lately than he would have preferred (which was none).

He hadn’t wanted to make his decisions based on fear of being discovered, was what it came down to. That, and at eighteen he’d still been at the stage where he thought himself invincible. Nobody had suspected him so far, he’d reasoned; why would they ever?

Garak thought they were talking about the chance their _malon anbar_ could be discovered, and on that front he was much more paranoid than Julian, which begged the question of why he wasn’t firmly stating that Zimmerman’s inquisition couldn’t be tolerated.

“I expected you would hate the very idea of the LMH. It involves a lot of interviewing me and digging into my life.” Which terrified Julian for all the reasons he couldn’t say.

“I don’t like it, but I dislike many necessary things. Refusing the honor could raise suspicions which would be very difficult to erase.”

He hadn’t thought of that. It was unlikely anyone would suspect a _malon anbar_ , to be sure, but could they wonder if he had something to hide? The situation was even worse than he thought. Maybe xenozoology wouldn’t have been so bad.

“Damned if I do, damned if I don’t.”

Garak lifted an eyeridge slightly. “An interesting turn of phrase, but essentially accurate.”

“Why couldn’t they have chosen Crusher?” he muttered, mainly to himself. She was CMO of the flagship, so the idea made a great deal of sense.

“That line of thinking is unproductive.”

“No, it’s not. I’m venting.” Besides, he could vent and think at the same time.

“You’re complaining when you need to consider all options, decide on a course of action, and see it through.”

That much was true, and Julian knew he was liable to think himself into circles about this. It was why he’d come to Garak. “I hate it when you’re right.”

“I, on the other hand, take great pleasure in it.”

Julian’s retort was preempted by his combadge. “Sisko to Bashir.”

He did not want to have this conversation with the captain. Sisko wouldn’t appreciate a reminder of how complicated the _malon anbar_ made Julian’s life – and by extension his own - and he might just wonder if Julian had anything else to hide. Still, a comm was a comm. “Bashir.”

“It appears that Dr. Zimmerman invited your parents to DS9.”

Garak saw the look of abject horror on Julian’s face, but in a small act of mercy, he declined to comment on it. Julian would take whatever reprieve he could get from the universe right now.

* * *

 

Julian’s day continued to go from bad to worse. In front of Captain Sisko he tried very hard not to act as though, if he hadn’t been rescued and ended up spending the rest of his undoubtedly short life in Interment Camp 371, the silver lining would’ve been that he never had to speak to his father again.

He didn’t think the captain was fooled.

Jadzia seemed amused by Julian’s discomfort at first, though that dimmed in the face of growing concern over how genuinely unhappy he was.

Julian had never been a very good actor. He had a limited range, and that was ‘perfectly normal, non-Augmented human.’ It was all about knowing the standard physical and mental limits, and then exceeding them never (physical) or by just enough to put himself above average (mental).

Emotional states were something else altogether. He’d only just gotten halfway competent at reading other people’s emotional states. Maybe he could fake his own in another fifteen years or so. That would be useful, and he moved it up his mental priority list.

He endured a painful lunch with his parents, with his father going on about his latest grand ventures and his mother asking about life on the station. After that, he had to face Zimmerman for an initial interview. Two-thirds of the way through, he decided not to go through with the LMH. If this was the preliminary interview, he was afraid to think what the full inquisition would be, and it was simply too great a risk.

Frankly, the brawl in Quark’s had been a relief in that it gave him pressing wounds to which he could devote his attention. Ensign Mbanefo’s compound wrist fracture received perhaps the most thorough osteoregenerative treatment of Julian’s career thus far, and the Andorian traders who’d started the brawl also received top-notch medical care before Odo marched them off to the holding cells.

By then it was early evening, and since it was supposed to be his day off Julian had positively fled the infirmary for his quarters and invited Garak over. He sought refuge in a round of vigorous sex which was the only thing capable of truly taking his mind off his conundrum. It worked, albeit briefly.

They’d retreated to the _malon anbar_ in silent accord. He and Garak were very good at silent accord these days.

“You are determined not to do it,” said Garak when Julian’s breathing had evened out, despite Julian not having said a word to that effect.

“Yes.” He hadn’t quite worked out how to refuse, and was hoping Garak would help him there.

“It’s quite an honor.”

“Yes, it is.”

Julian liked to think that he was more than his enhancements, and most of the time he believed it. Scientists couldn’t genetically engineer his compassion for those suffering or his determination to help his patients in spite of all obstacles, he knew. And yet he wondered – he would always wonder - if any of it would have mattered without the resequencing.

He didn’t think he deserved the honor of the LMH. If nothing else, it would be rewarding a lie. True, it was a lie he had to perpetuate if he wanted any kind of life worth living, but still. His parents had chosen Adigeon Prime. He’d chosen the most forbidden careers for an Augment.

He needed to make a difference, to make killing Jules worthwhile by virtue of the lives he could save. Xenozoology could never have done that.

Unfortunately, the requisite lies weighed heavier these days.

Garak, knowing none of this, thought declining the LMH was only about protecting their _malon anbar_. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” said Julian, another layer of guilt settling in because he was using their private universe as a screen for his real reason.

“I’m not certain about that.”

“I am.” More than he could say.

Garak readjusted his position. He was still trying to will furniture into existence, no doubt. “I think I have a valid point that we can keep this a secret, and then the visibility of modeling for the LMH would be an asset should the _malon anbar_ be revealed in the future. Higher profile targets are more difficult to kidnap safely, and remember, refusing might be just as suspicious.”

“You don’t know for certain it won’t come out now.” Was he talking about their unique dimension or his genetic enhancements? Both, Julian decided.

“Nothing is ever certain.”

The end of his career was, if his secret came out.

Garak, sensing this conversation was going nowhere and being in an accommodating mood since they returned from the internment camp, changed the subject. “I’m surprised you aren’t taking this opportunity to spend more time with your parents.”

“I didn’t ask them to come. We’ve been estranged for many years.” A small part of Julian was pleased to refuse Zimmerman’s offer if for no other reason than to deny his parents the ability to brag about this wonderful son they’d designed being used for the LMH.  

“Unfortunate, but sometimes necessary.”

And the lovely thing about Garak was that he left the fraught topic there. No sympathy which required a response, no questions about how this falling out took place, no trying to figure out if Julian was unreasonable or had truly hideous parents.

“I want a bed,” said Julian.

“What?”

“If we can figure out how to move furniture in here, or create it, I want a bed.”

Garak, true to form, found a quibble. “Not an overly soft one.”

“We experience different temperatures. Who’s to say we’d feel the same firmness in a bed?”

That was another aspect of the _malon anbar_ which continued to baffle. Sometimes Julian thought he could drive himself mad trying to make sense of it all, in which cases he reminded himself to simply step back and enjoy what he had.

“An intriguing idea,” said Garak. He looked about to say more, but Julian could hear the chiming of his door on the station, so they slipped back into the normal universe, and clothes.

Garak stayed in the bedroom for discretion. There were rumors about them, but only Jadzia, Miles, and Captain Sisko knew with any certainty about their relationship… whatever exactly their relationship _was_. They’d never told Sisko in so many words, but he had to know. And Odo might, for that matter. Anyway, Julian would tell whoever it was that he wasn’t in the mood for company. He had a sinking feeling it was going to be his parents, so it might take a few minutes and heated words to get them out of his quarters.

Yes, it was his parents. Inevitable, he knew, but that didn’t mean he had to like their appearance, at his door or in his life.

“Jules…”

“Mother, Father.”

“Aren’t you going to invite us in?” asked his father.

“Do I have a choice?” He stood back and let his parents in. Best not to have tense words in the corridor where gossiping ears might hear.

“There’s no need to decline this project,” said his father. Of course. He wanted to show off his creation to the universe.

“It’s not your decision to make.”

“Richard, dear, let’s visit before we discuss this. We haven’t seen Jules in so long.”

“Julian,” he said, but they didn’t listen. They never did. Garak was going to have a field day with this conversation.

“Because he never visits,” his father complained.

“I’m in the middle of something at the moment,” said Julian.

His father gave him a dirty look but spoke to his mother. “Too busy for his parents, now.”

Garak had already gotten plenty of information, and anyway, Julian didn’t want to talk with his parents at all. He was willing to compromise if they only left his quarters. “Breakfast tomorrow?”

“Oh, that would be lovely!” His mother was so pleased that for a moment Julian did feel guilty he never wrote. Only for a moment, until he remembered that he hadn’t been good enough for her.

“Come back at seven hundred hours?” he asked.

His mother nodded. “Perhaps you can introduce us to some Bajoran food.”

“Alright.”

“And Jules…” said his father.

He clenched his jaw at the nickname, both because he hated it and his parents really needed to leave. Not that they ever talked about the proverbial elephant in the room, but now would be a very bad time to change the status quo, and he’d feel better once they were firmly outside.

“You can take them up on this hologram project. It’s such an honor! You know we won’t say anything about the genetic engineering.”

He said this at his usual volume, naturally. And while the soundproofing between quarters was decent, the interior doors of his quarters had none of which to speak. There was no way Garak hadn’t heard.

Julian had always thought that if someone ever learned his secret, he would feel like his life was over. Maybe it was, but this was Garak, so he could still cling to some hope. He clung to it desperately, reminding himself to breathe through another sentence of his father’s he didn’t actually register.

The first domino may have fallen, but there might yet be saving the rest. Or was that what all condemned men thought, grasping at straws as their lives unraveled in front of their eyes? He’d never been brave enough to examine Cardassian beliefs around genetic resequencing, and he sorely regretted that cowardice.

The bedroom door opened.

“Jules!” cried his mother as all the color drained from his father’s face, and he thought it served them right that after all he’d suffered - all the people he hadn’t let get close, all the days he’d hated himself because of their choice - in the end it was their fault someone else knew.

Only Garak could manage a smile so pleasant with eyes so dangerous. “If that’s how you keep secrets, your son is lucky to still have a career.”

Julian wasn’t sure he’d ever seen his father’s face quite so thunderous. “He _knows?_ ”

“He does now.”

“Entirely thanks to you,” said Garak. “You didn’t even take precautions against eavesdroppers. Fortunately, I do.”

His mother was staring at Garak, mouth open, unable to form words. His father was getting angry because he knew Garak was right. Julian was exhausted, and he let the last barrier fall away. “Mother, Father, this is Elim.”

The smile he got from Garak – it was going to take some time to get used to thinking of him by first name, if he ever did – told him the message was received, accepted, and agreed with.

The dominoes weren’t crashing down yet.

“You... you…”

Julian took great satisfaction in seeing his father at a loss for words.

“Jules, you should’ve told us you had a guest!”

Garak was having none of that. “It is the responsibility of the person verbalizing privileged information to make sure a room is secure. Had it been anyone else, Julian could be facing a court-martial for lying on his Starfleet application. If you can’t be sure a secret will remain safe, you must never utter it.”

Garak used his first name and was now upbraiding his parents for their poor secret-keeping. Julian felt his pulse start to settle as he realized Garak was irate, but not with him, and he thought he might be a bit in love with Elim Garak.

“Jules,” began his mother.

“It’s Julian!” he snapped, unable to take her reproach. “I haven’t called myself Jules since I was fifteen and learned what you’d done to me.”

“ _To_ you? This was _for_ you.”

“No, it wasn’t. It was because you decided I was a failure in the first grade, because you couldn’t deal with the shame of having a son who didn’t measure up. And I’m the one who’s had to live with the consequences of your decision.”

Garak moved to stand beside him and put a hand on his shoulder in solidarity. Julian watched as his mother started to cry, but the only thing he felt was relief.

* * *

 

Garak hadn’t expected this, of all possible explanations for filial estrangement. It was embarrassing that he’d never suspected, but then again, he was dealing with a far more consummate liar (if only in this one area) than he’d ever suspected. It was astonishing and offered exhilarating possibilities.

While Mrs. Bashir justified her actions based on love, he considered how best to move forward. Delicacy was called for, to be sure. He could fault his own surprise later; now was the time to ensure his _anbaras_ ’s hapless parents did not ruin everything.

The revelation explained much. (To think, popular opinion held that Julian was a xenophile, when he was more likely choosing alien lovers who might dismiss any missteps made in the heat of passion as an interspecies difference.) Most clearly, it explained why Julian – and wasn’t it pleasant to think of the man by first name – hadn’t been happy to learn Garak trusted him with the truth about his relationship to Tain, and why he’d resisted moving to a first-name basis. He had been ashamed that he couldn’t return Garak’s trust in kind.

Garak didn’t take it personally. He wasn’t as familiar with the Starfleet regulations and Federation laws as he would be shortly, but was well aware the Federation, being as it was dominated by humans, nurtured a strong phobia of genetic tinkering except in cases of extreme congenital birth defects.

He knew this because there had once been an Order blackmail operation against just such a Starfleet officer, which he never intended for Julian to find out. Garak hadn’t personally been involved, but still, it would never do for Julian to learn of this.

Cardassians rarely embraced these procedures as well, if for entirely different reasons. They were not so paranoid about it as humans, and Garak, for his part, had no objection on principle to an _anbaras_ with resequenced genes. He did, however, strongly object to the man’s parents being so careless with the information.

When it seemed Julian and his parents had arrived at some kind of détente, if Julian tentatively hugging his mother was a reliable indication, Garak fixed the elder Bashirs with a stern glare. “I trust you will take this as a lesson in the value of discretion.”

Mrs. Bashir nodded. Her husband looked like he wanted to argue but, in an unexpected flash of wisdom, thought better of it at the last second. Instead he asked, “You won’t tell anyone?”

“Certainly not.”

Garak had dealt in secrets all his life. This was a rare variety, the kind for which Standard lacked a proper word. Cardassi had a term which he approximated as ‘soul-secret,’ reserved for the information one held most dear. For example, one’s father being the head of the Obsidian Order. Garak had more secrets than he could count, but aside from his familial ties, he’d never had a soul-secret before Julian Bashir. Now he had two: the _malon anbar_ and Julian’s genetic engineering.

It was a good thing he had practice with handling confidential information.

Mrs. Bashir held out her hand. “Amsha Bashir,” she said.

Garak shook it according to human custom, then accepted her husband’s more wary hand as the older human said, “Richard Bashir.”

“Garak.”

“I thought Jules – Julian said your name is Elim,” said Mrs. Bashir.

Garak flicked his gaze to his _anbaras_ , who really ought to explain to his parents. Julian got the message. “Cardassians don’t use first names as casually as we do. It would be presumptuous for you to be on a first-name basis with him. I should’ve introduced him as Garak.”

He wouldn’t have used those exact words, but the explanation sufficed. Moreover, he knew that Julian had used his first name earlier to send a message. It was a simple, elegant way of stating a great deal with a single word. Instead of stating outright, ‘This is my greatest secret, and if you can accept it, I am ready for greater intimacy between us,’ he simply used Garak’s first name. Very Cardassian, which pleased Garak greatly.

Both of Julian’s parents looked at him. Garak had gathered from their conversation that there was many years’ accumulation of tension here, with Julian feeling rejected and his parents finding him ungrateful. Having his own experience with parental rejection and a notable bias in favor of Julian, he found himself thinking that parents who had their son illegally engineered really ought to have explained their reasoning to him properly long ago.

“And you, Mr. Garak? Who are you?”

“I’m the station’s tailor,” he replied. Julian smiled.

“I think Amsha meant to ask what you are to Julian.”

“Did she? In that case, I would’ve told her our relationship is rather difficult to define in human terms.” A very truthful lie indeed.

“What does it look like he is, Mother?” asked Julian, in an inspired bit of obfuscation by implication. He’d learned well. Then again, he’d begun their acquaintance with far more experience in misdirection than Garak had assumed. How positively delightful.

Garak was uncommonly intelligent even by Cardassian standards, and often struggled to find an equal with whom he could converse. Julian had been the closest he’d come in – well, longer than he cared to consider – and that was when he held himself back. Now Garak could look forward to a real challenge, and the prospect held great appeal. More than anything, Garak craved someone who could match him in a battle of wits. He wondered if he could convince the man to start learning Cardassi. He missed speaking in his language.

“You might have said earlier that you have a partner,” Mrs. Bashir said, looking appropriately chagrined. “We wouldn’t have barged in.”

Garak was quite glad they had.

“I think it’s worked out for the best,” said Julian. His father clearly disagreed.

“And I think you were right,” said Garak. “You cannot model for the LMH. There must be evidence, however remote, which a thorough investigation of your past might bring to Starfleet’s attention.”

All three Bashirs nodded.

“In that case, you,” he addressed the elder Bashirs, “will have to help us convince Zimmerman, and quite possibly Captain Sisko, that Julian is simply too distraught from his recent misadventure in the Gamma Quadrant for such a rigorous process at the moment.”

Mr. Bashir gave him a curious look. “Misadventure?”

Oh dear. Evidently estranged human parents didn’t keep tabs on their children the way Cardassian parents did.

“I spent a month in a Dominion internment camp.” Julian’s affect went flat as he relayed the news, a clear warning sign that he wasn’t inclined to discuss the topic in any detail.

“Oh, Jules. Julian. My poor boy.” Mrs. Bashir hugged her son again, and he accepted the embrace.

“My God,” said Mr. Bashir. Garak found he didn’t like the mental use of those human titles, but he couldn’t fit Cardassian name prefixes to identify them, and he certainly wasn’t on a first-name basis with Julian’s parents.

He continued his instructions. “You will explain to anyone who cares to ask that Julian is recovering from the ordeal and this business with the LMH is a matter of unfortunate timing. As far as Captain Sisko and Commander Dax, and _only_ Captain Sisko and Commander Dax, are concerned, you may also suggest that our relationship is best not discussed in detail at Starfleet Medical. I’m sure they’ll agree wholeheartedly.”

Mr. Bashir gave him another peculiar look. “An expert at keeping secrets, are you?”

Garak gave him a broad, only slightly threatening smile, and let his silence speak eloquently.

* * *

 

After letting his mother fuss over him and Garak give two more warnings on better secret-keeping which had his father very curious indeed, Julian finally got his parents out the door with the promise of breakfast the next morning and dinner with him and Garak the following evening.

“You’re not repulsed,” he said when they were alone again.

“Should I be?” asked Garak lightly, as though they were discussing a new dish at the Replimat and not Julian’s deepest secret.

“I’d rather you weren’t.”

“I find it rather enticing,” said Garak.

“That I’m an Augment?” It was utterly strange to speak that phrase aloud.

“That you’re capable of such thorough deception.”

They let the _malon anbar_ take them. It really was a shame about the lack of… Julian hadn’t finished the thought when a bed appeared.

“Have you been hiding this ability?” asked Garak.

“No. I’ve hidden a lot of things, but this wasn’t one of them. Maybe it’s because we know each other’s secrets now.” It fit into his theory about brain waves allowing them to move between universes together.  

Garak settled himself on it, pleased. “It’s agreeably firm.”

Julian wasn’t at all surprised to find it decadently soft. “Not for me. This place is a marvel.” He flopped back on the bed, wondering if wishes could become horses in this universe. After a moment of simple enjoyment, he turned to Garak and asked the easiest question. “Are you alright with my parents thinking you’re my partner?”

“I think the implication held some measure of truth,” said Garak carefully. “Speaking strictly of the present, as I don’t think either of us is in a position to make promises for the future.”

The qualification reassured Julian, oddly enough. It meant Garak was still Garak, and this wasn’t some bizarre alternate reality. “I’m not particularly worried about the future at the moment.”

Could it really be this easy? Acceptance, a relationship with someone who didn’t turn away in disgust, protecting his secret, everything he’d ever wanted all at once?

Garak said, “I am always worried about the future, but that does not preclude taking what pleasure I can from the present.”

Maybe it could be that easy.

“I suppose you’d like to know my stance on genetic engineering,” said Garak after a moment.

“The thought had occurred to me.”

Garak’s blue eyes held no trace of fear or disgust. “I consider it a risky process, unless your scientists have managed to get more consistent results than their Cardassian counterparts. You would find many of my people agree, though more concern themselves with the idea of our genetic heritage being altered, and while I understand those fears I can’t say I share them. I do not think the process merits legal penalties or social opprobrium. What is that peculiar human idiom, a storm in a mug?”

“A tempest in a teacup,” supplied Julian.

“An apt description of my thoughts on Federation fears regarding genetic engineering.”

Julian kissed him. “I lied, you know.”

“We all lie, my dear.”

“I’m a fraud,” he said, confessing his sins because he’d been waiting a very long time for the opportunity.

“Yes, I’m sure the patients you’ve saved would be horrified to learn you’ve been masquerading as a qualified doctor all along.”

“My memory is as good as yours, probably better.”

“Then I can look forward to the immediate cessation of your misquoting great Cardassian literature.”

About that. “I could’ve learned Cardassi a long time ago. Written, at least. That’s simple memorization.” He’d known it would’ve meant a great deal to Garak, particularly once they shared the _malon anbar_ , but he was afraid it would be suspiciously easy and, to be honest, wasn’t entirely sure how to put on a good show of having to work hard to learn the language. It didn’t help that only a handful of humans had ever learned Cardassi, so he had no reliable standard against which to pace himself.  

“We’ll start lessons tomorrow,” said Garak, looking very pleased indeed.

“I’m stronger than I look, with better endurance as well.”

“A distinct advantage against unsuspecting enemies.”

“I’ve never let anyone die to protect myself.”

“How very human of you. I would expect nothing else.”

“I may have let people suffer a little longer.” And he hated himself every single time.

“Everyone suffers.”

“You told me a secret that was part of your identity, and I didn’t have the courtesy to do the same.”

“It wasn’t personal.”

“My entire life is a lie.”

“There’s a great deal of truth in lies.”

“Except the subpar social skills. Unfortunately, there are no genes for that.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about it. You seem to be getting along just fine.”

“I’m a hypocrite.”

“As is everyone.”

He was running out of reasons Garak should despise him, not for who he was, but for everything he’d done to cover it up. He’d always imagined that if anyone could accept him, it would be this man. Garak dealt in the truth between the lies, after all. Julian lobbed the worst crime he could think of, from a Cardassian viewpoint. “I’m flouting the rules of my state for personal convenience.”

“I have never been terribly concerned with Federation rules. Are you nearly done trying to convince me to hate you? I can think of better ways to spend the time.”

In that case, so could Julian.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote most of this chapter before I'd even finished A Private Universe, striving for a balance between the episode and my 'verse. Comments feed the muse and make me smile. =)


	7. The Redemption of Sentiment

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever wondered why the Bashirs had Julian physically enhanced when it would make his life so much harder? Well, I have a theory...

“That was excruciating,” said Julian when his parents took their leave.

It was tense for a family dinner, to be sure. Formal affairs at the embassy on Romulus had been no more strained. Garak worked to be as charming as possible, and while Mrs. Bashir seemed inclined to find him agreeable, her husband did not.

“I don’t think your father likes me, though I can’t imagine why he wouldn’t.” That wasn’t true, of course. Garak could think of many reasons, the most likely being that a Cardassian tailor disinclined to speak of his past but capable of obvious menace was not the kind of match Mr. Bashir had hoped for his son.

It was not an unreasonable concern.

Julian said, “You scare him.”

“Good. Perhaps he will take my lessons on discretion seriously. I’m starting to see why humans place so much value on luck, as there is no other explanation for your parents not having ruined your career years ago.”

Garak would be glad when Julian’s parents left the station. Their appalling lack of discretion was less dangerous on Earth, though he did still have to suggest that they not tell all and sundry that Julian was involved with him. It ought to be obvious, but evidence made it clear he could not count on the Bashirs realizing so on their own. When it came to secret-keeping, they were imbeciles of the highest degree.

“We never talk about it,” said Julian. “Not since our last fight when I was seventeen. Then six months later I went to the Academy and by the time I went to Starfleet Medical School we stopped talking altogether. God, I need a drink.”

He had real alcohol stashed in a cupboard, and after ordering something called tonic water from the replicator, he brought over two glasses. “Have you ever tried gin and tonic?”

“No.”

“Here’s your chance.”

Garak was not altogether sure he wanted the opportunity, but it would be rude to decline, so he accepted the glass and sipped it tentatively. It was one of the better human beverages he’d sampled. “The taste is not unpleasant, but must you include bubbles in so many of your beverages?”

“The carbonation is a good thing. Keeps me from downing it faster than is advisable, which is otherwise very likely after two meals with my parents in a single day.”

If Tain had ever been a fraction so eager for Garak’s attention as Julian’s parents were for his, he would have counted himself very fortunate indeed. He understood, however, where the situations were entirely different. Julian felt, not without some basis in facts, that his parents loved only the son they’d created, not the son the multiverse had given them. They adored him not for being their child but for what he could do (or so Julian believed, which was all that mattered) and this much was familiar indeed.

Garak knew very well how much parental woes could make a man want a drink, so he sipped his gin and tonic in solidarity.

“There’s a four-hundred-year old poem you might appreciate,” said Julian.

“Oh?”

“It’s called “This Be the Verse” and it starts, _They fuck you up, your mum and dad_.”

“How positively scandalous.” An opening line like that would be the stuff of illicit underground poetry on Cardassia, all anonymous of course. Not technically illegal, perhaps, but nothing anyone would admit to reading, either.

Julian’s eyes flicked to a padd, as though he might look it up for reference. Or pretend to, at any rate. Then he met Garak’s eyes and recited it without pretense.

“They fuck you up, your mum and dad.

They may not mean to, but they do.

They fill you with the faults they had

And add some extra, just for you.

But they were fucked up in their turn

By fools in old-style hats and coats,   

Who half the time were soppy-stern

And half at one another’s throats.

Man hands on misery to man.

It deepens like a coastal shelf.

Get out as early as you can,

And don’t have any kids yourself.”

“I had no idea you could be so cynical,” said Garak, who was pleased and saddened in equal measure. Sentiment again.

“I’m afraid my natural inclination to optimism has been beaten down by harsh experience when it comes to parents. What did you think of the poem?” His body language clearly wanted to know what Garak thought of him quoting the entire thing from memory, no doubt verbatim. Garak knew perfectly well his _anbaras_ was testing him.

“Not exactly the most elegant arrangement of words, but I’ll admit there’s a certain amount of accuracy in it.” He kept his expression neutral, as during any other literature discussion before they got passionately involved in the debate. He was not threatened by Julian’s memory, intelligence, or anything else. He was, in fact, rather thrilled. How much more detailed might their discussions become? The possibilities for further exploration of subtext were delightfully vast.

“I took the advice at the end to heart,” said Julian.

Garak had tried the opposite – not having children of course, that would be absurd – without success. He’d attempted to stay and earn his father’s regard, and look where that had gotten him. Exiled. Julian’s approach seemed to be working much better.

“That explains why you never spend any leave on Earth.”

Julian looked at his drink for a long moment, an indication he was bracing himself to broach something potentially unpleasant. “It was your truth, wasn’t it? Your attempt at reassuring my father by mentioning that I know damaging information about you.”

Garak was not remotely concerned with assuaging Mr. Bashir’s worry. The statement had been entirely for Julian’s benefit. “If this is going to be more misplaced human guilt about reciprocity, I’m not interested in revisiting the subject.”

“I have a lot of guilt, and it’s not misplaced. When I decided to join Starfleet everything seemed black and white. It wasn’t fair that I couldn’t join because of something done to me when I was a child, so lying seemed reasonable.”

Garak really wasn’t the best person for discussions of human morality. He was, however, the only one Julian could converse with on this subject. “I wouldn’t know. I never feel remorse for my lies.”

He didn’t mention that his capacity to feel regret at all, however minimal it might be by Julian’s standards, had been a terrible failing as far as Tain was concerned. Both he and Julian had been shaped by their fathers, if in radically different ways.

“I don’t expect you to understand why this bothers me,” said Julian.

“It’s good to have realistic expectations.”

“You weren’t exaggerating what you told my father.”

“I was not. It’s quite obvious that he must become a better secret keeper.”

Julian did not fall for the diversion. “Your own really is that dangerous to you.”

Curses, this man was persistent. “Less so than it used to be. With Dukat nominally ruling Cardassia I can hardly expect to be welcomed back, regardless.”

Any hope Garak held that he would be able to downplay the risk was swiftly crushed when Julian said, “I see. And he would be thrilled to publicly proclaim your connection to Tain, so that everyone who was ever wronged by the Obsidian Order could take their frustrations out on you.”

In truth, Dukat was not the most dangerous of Garak’s enemies, but Julian was not wrong in his assessment. “I believe he’d rather kill me himself. He hasn’t managed yet, however.”

“Alright, I get the message. You’re not going to tell me why you let me hear you and Tain.”

No, he was not. He’d said all he cared to on the subject weeks earlier. “You really must work on your subtlety if you hope to achieve anything in Cardassian conversation.”

Julian lifted his eyebrows and gave the barest hint of a smile. “I’ll add it to my to-do list. I’ve freed up some time since I told Zimmerman thank you, but no thank you.”

“I’m more interested in Sisko’s response.” Garak would have preferred to be part of that conversation, but there was no good excuse for his presence.

“He asked if it was really about you. I told him yes and no.”

“You should have simply said yes.”

“I took a page from your book of true lies and told him that, secondary concern though it may be, this really isn’t the best time for a rigorous examination of my entire life. He’s well aware that I’m still working through the fallout from my tenure in Internment Camp 371.”

“Please. I would never be so obvious as to compose a book of true lies,” said Garak.

“It’s an idiom, which you know full well.”

He did. “I imagine this earned you another round of the captain’s vaguely paternal concern.”

“Vaguely? It’s more authentic than my own father’s.”

Throughout the conversation, Julian gradually relaxed. Garak supposed this was because he’d always expected rejection when his genetic status was revealed, and was now allowing himself to accept that Garak was truly unbothered.

Garak could relate to this. He had, over the years, been pleasantly surprised to find Julian did not scorn him when his own truths were exposed.

“I promise not to brood about my augmentations forever,” said Julian. “My ability to not think about it has taken a few hits lately.”

“Should your father need further intimidation, I am happy to oblige.”

Still as expressive as ever, Julian gave him a look of genuine pleasure. “I’ll keep it in mind. Now, I can probably sleep alone once more, but I am curious about the possibility of spending the night on that marvelous bed we’ve willed into existence.”

The last few weeks had proven that they did not move between universes while sleeping, which saved a great deal of trouble. Garak was not uninterested in Julian’s suggestion, as it was a very comfortable bed and the _malon anbar_ was as secure as he could hope for, which facilitated good rest. However, he had a condition. “I could be agreeable, if you refrain from mentioning it to Dax and O’Brien.”

“Why, because they might get the wrong idea?”

They might get precisely the right idea, though Garak wasn’t about to say so. “I don’t enjoy the commander’s innuendo.”

“Jadzia teases. It’s all in good fun.”

“To you, perhaps.”

“And Miles?”

“Speaks with Dax.”

Julian shook his head. “Fine. We’ll keep that between us. It’s becoming quite a list.”

Such was Cardassian intimacy, which Julian had to know from years of exposure to literature. Indeed, he looked softly delighted. It was a remarkable change from his demeanor in his parents’ presence.

Garak could scarcely believe this. People used to be terrified of him learning their secrets, and of him in general. Now Julian felt safe in his presence, even when Garak knew his secrets, and instead of thinking the man a naïve fool, Garak felt an unfamiliar warmth of affection and a desire to be worthy of Julian’s regard.

Aside from Mila and the single childhood playmate he was permitted, nobody had ever cared for him. For what he could do or aims he might help them accomplish, yes, but nothing further. Until Julian, who had some idea what Garak was and had done, yet still had a smile reserved just for him.

Sentiment, it seemed, was not without some redeeming features.

* * *

 

Julian enjoyed a good night’s sleep, by his recent standards. Just over five hours before he woke up from a nightmare, and another hour after he relaxed enough to fall back asleep. With any luck, he’d soon be back to his normal seven and a quarter hours.

Garak didn’t stay for breakfast, because he preferred to slip out while nobody was in the vicinity. This was fine by Julian, who didn’t need the entire station knowing that he and Garak were involved. His life was complicated enough as it was

When his door chimed, he hastily swallowed a bite of scone. “Come in.”

It was Jadzia. “Julian, I could use your help with my new magic trick.”

“What kind of help?”

“I need to cut your legs off.”

And here he’d been expecting he would hold a hat. “I think I should be prepping the infirmary if you’re going to try that on anyone.”

“It’s only an illusion. I’ve practiced in the holosuite, but I need a real person at Quark’s.” She made herself comfortable on his couch, looking for all the universe like a woman who hadn’t just asked to separate him from his legs.

“You’re getting very invested in these talent shows.”

“It’s fun. I’m planning a mix of Trill and human tricks for this one. Besides, I need a break from staring at my latest neutrino data set and waiting for it to make sense.”

“Still no consistency?” Julian could sympathize with the frustrations of research. One of his prion replication projects wasn’t going very well at the moment, either.

“None at all. So, will you do it?”

“If we practice in the holosuite first.”

“Thanks, Julian. It’s going to be great.”

“I’ll count it a success as long as I keep all of my limbs.”

“No blood will be spilled, I promise.”

“I’d be more concerned if you were including Klingon tricks.”

“Klingons don’t have magic tricks,” said Jadzia. “Which is just as well, now that I think about it.”

“No pulling krada out of a hat?”

“That hat would smell until it disintegrated.”

After a moment of companionable silence, Julian decided he had nothing to lose by asking her the question which had bothered him since the previous afternoon. “Does Captain Sisko think Garak coerced me into refusing the LMH project?”

“Not as far as I know. Why?”

“He seemed worried.”

Jadzia gave him the look which meant he’d missed something obvious. He didn’t get that as often these days, but he still recognized it instantly. “Nobody thinks you’d let Garak get away with that, and I for one don’t think he’d try it in the first place. One of the things he likes about you is that you’re not afraid to stand up to him, and the risk of Zimmerman finding out about the _malon anbar_ is next to nonexistent. Sisko is worried because you don’t really want to model for the LMH, and that’s not like you.”

Oh. This was about his trauma recovery, not Garak. Just when Julian appeared to be turning a corner, he refused a very flattering honor (one which would’ve appealed to his professional ego if not for the enhancements). He could see why that would be concerning to others, and he really ought to have grasped that without Jadzia spelling it out, but emotions and interpersonal communication had always been Julian’s blind spots.

Worse, he’d given Jadzia fodder for whatever went on in her combined brains.

“Of course, if Garak did coerce you, it’s not going to end well for him.”

“He thought I should do it,” said Julian. Garak had, until he learned the real reason it was a terrible idea. “Not that he liked the idea, mind you.”

“I’m sure he didn’t. If you’re not up for the project now, that’s fine. Most of us have gone through our own rough patches. It’s an occupational hazard.”

“You haven’t.”

“Maybe I just hid it better.”

He gave her a questioning look, because if there was anyone he’d always believed had their life perfectly balanced even during the worst storm, it was Jadzia.

“After Verad,” she said. “The worst, though, was on my first posting out of the Academy, the _Kepler_. I was bitten by a snake and completely paralyzed for two weeks. The entire time I was conscious and convinced I was going to spend the rest of my life unable to move.”

“That’s awful.”

“It was,” she agreed. “Welcome to the club nobody wants to be in.”

“At least I have good company.” Not to mention friends who’d understood why he pushed them away for the last few weeks and would no doubt still have his moments in the near future.

The door chimed again. “You’re popular this morning,” said Jadzia.

“Come in.”

It was his mother, looking like something was on her mind. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what it was. “Good morning, Julian.”

At least she was using the right name now.

Jadzia stood up to make a graceful exit. “I’ll see you at the staff meeting.”

“May I sit?” asked his mother when the door closed behind Jadzia.

Julian nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak.

“Your father wants to stay longer, but I realize we should go, so I booked us transport leaving the day after tomorrow.” Amsha Bashir rarely put her foot down, but once she did, there was no force in the galaxy capable of moving it, not even her husband. “And I decided I should speak with you alone. You and your father are both so stubborn, it makes it difficult for the two of you to communicate.”

“Mutual obstinacy is the least of our problems.”

“We took you to Adigeon Prime because we wanted the best for you,” she said. “It breaks my heart all over again to know you think we rejected you, and that you’re not the same person.”

“How could I be the same person? You changed everything about me.”

“No. You’ve always been curious, fearless, and generous. There’s so much goodness in you, Julian, and nobody can create that in a lab.”

“But it wasn’t enough. _I_ wasn’t enough.” He hated the plaintive note in his voice, so he stopped talking.

“We wanted you to have every opportunity. Maybe we were wrong. That’s why we’re leaving. I don’t think we ever really stopped to understand your perspective, because we…” she trailed off, but eventually looked him in the eyes and started again. “We never meant for you to find out.”

That didn’t begin to make sense. “How did you possibly think you could manage that? It’d have been very suspicious if I kept winning all my racquetball matches.”

“We didn’t ask for the physical augmentations.”

“What?” Julian was suddenly grateful he was sitting down.

“Your father hates to talk about it, because he’s never forgiven himself for letting the doctors use you the way they did.”

Yes, it was for the best his father wasn’t here. Conversations with him never went smoothly, and Julian was thrown enough by this one as it was. In fact, he was grateful he’d not had the chance to eat much breakfast, because his stomach was roiling. “I was an experiment.”

His mother was rapidly tearing up. “I’m so sorry. We love you, Jules, and you were trying so hard but you couldn’t do what you wanted, what the other children were, and it was breaking our hearts to see you feel worse and worse about yourself as you fell behind. You kept asking what was wrong with you. So we took you to Adigeon Prime for the resequencing, but all we ever asked for was that they help you with whatever was holding you back.”

“I can hardly picture Father minding a bit of extra intelligence.” Somehow, thinking poorly of his father was Julian’s anchor in this discussion.

“He didn’t. Everything else, though… we learned about it after. It could’ve gone badly, and we’ve had to live with that on our consciences for the last twenty-five years. You weren’t supposed to have to hide.”

He looked out the window to avoid her earnest face. “I always would’ve had to hide, Mother. The resequencing worked too well in mental capabilities alone. And you know what? Sometimes I think that’s all I have to offer the universe. What I had before wasn’t sufficient.”

His mother started to cry. “No, no. That’s not true.”

“Not always, not even most of the time, but every so often. Did you consider that possibility? Or that I’d have to lie by omission every day? That woman was Jadzia Dax. She’s one of my closest friends and I have to wonder how she’d feel about me if she knew the truth.”

“It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” his mother said through her tears. “All we ever wanted was for you to be happy and have a good life. We’d hear you crying to Kukalaka about the other children calling you stupid, and you would try to be brave in front of us, but it was a knife in my heart every time.”

Julian vaguely remembered that, and he began to understand where his mother was coming from. She’d been naïve to think there would be no consequences – quite aside from the physical augmentations being done without parental consent, which was going to take him a while to process – but he knew why she said she’d done it out of love.

He wasn’t sure he’d ever forgive his parents, not completely. That didn’t mean he was unmoved, and he reached over to put a hand over one of his mother’s.

“You’re so much more,” she sniffed. “Captain Sisko was telling us how important you are here, and he talked about how dedicated you are, how determined to save your patients, eager to explore, and compassionate in the face of suffering. That’s not raw intelligence, that’s _you._ That’s always been you, and I am so sorry for the ways we failed as parents.”

Julian had absolutely no idea how to respond. He was reeling from everything she’d told him, the entire disaster of his life, and oddly enough, the only thing he knew for certain was that good had come out of it. Kirayoshi was living proof.

“I’m glad your Garak accepts you.”

Garak wasn’t Julian’s; he was and always would be Cardassia’s. Still, whatever happened in the future, Julian would have the knowledge that one person liked him exactly as he was.

“Cardassians don’t stigmatize genetic resequencing the way we do. If you come out fine, all’s well that ends well. Garak is also a pragmatist.” And fully capable of understanding that even the largest lies didn’t have to cover up essential truths, but Julian didn’t feel like explaining that to his mother.

“Your father doesn’t like to be intimidated, but I think it’s sweet how much Garak cares.”

Sweet was the last adjective anyone else would associate with Garak. She wasn’t entirely wrong, though, because Garak only protected what he cared about, and that was a short list.

“I have to get to the infirmary,” he said. He could’ve commed and let them know he’d be late, but he didn’t want to. He desperately needed space.

His mother nodded. “I don’t want to push, but if you’d be willing to see us again before we go, I’d like that very much.”

He considered briefly and decided that, if it went badly, he really had nothing to lose, while if it went well he might gain a little peace of mind. “Dinner tomorrow?” Not that night. He needed to process what he’d just learned.

“That would be lovely.”

Oddly enough, even learning he’d been used as an experiment didn’t erase Julian’s relief. While he wasn’t sure about his father, his mother had taken him to Adigeon Prime out of love. Misguided and ill-considered as the resequencing was, he felt confident at least one of his parents had the best of intentions. That didn’t undo all of the damage to his relationship with her, nor make the consequences he shouldered disappear. It was something all the same.

Now, if he could have a quiet morning to throw himself into his research, he might start coming to terms with what he’d learned. For the first time, he thought he might actually have a chance at making peace with his augmentation.

* * *

 

Ben got to the Replimat a few minutes early. It was after the lunch rush, which meant there were enough tables that he didn’t need to hurry over and claim one. Instead he stood outside and waited for Kasidy.

Dr. Bashir and Garak were engrossed in one of their literature discussions, and Ben was happy to see Bashir enthusiastic about something again. The doctor had suffered plenty lately, first in the internment camp, then when his parents visited.

Ben didn’t know what family dynamics troubled his CMO, and while he was mildly curious, it was none of his business. Still, it had been evident that the doctor wasn’t happy to see his parents. While some of the tension seemed to have dissipated, it was by no means gone, particularly between Julian and his father. (Ben had a vested interest in keeping an eye on the situation, so he had.) The doctor’s mood improved notably once his parents left DS9 the previous morning, for which Ben was thankful.

In fact, if he wasn’t mistaken, Bashir and Garak were enjoying their argument tremendously.

“Ansetad’s resentment was unusually raw, for a modern Cardassian novel,” said Bashir.

“It verges on being uncouth.”

“The way he envied his brother’s successes…”

“He did not.”

“Of course he did. Every time his brother accomplished something, Ansetad overindulged in kanar.”

“I’m beginning to wonder if this is another case of poor translation. Kanar isn’t even mentioned.”

“It didn’t have to be. Multiple symptoms of a hangover are.”

It was a shame about the LMH, but a month ago Ben had thought they’d never get Bashir back at all. If the doctor didn’t want to model for the LMH, Ben wasn’t going to push. Zimmerman hadn’t planned to leave a biographical stone unturned, and even without knowledge of their private universe, it was best if Starfleet didn’t look too closely at Bashir’s relationship with Garak. Nobody would like what they found.

And yet, watching the two, Ben had to admit Garak made Bashir happy.

Whatever Garak had just said, Bashir wasn’t having it. “You can’t just ignore his hangovers because they’re not convenient for your interpretation.”

“They aren’t hangovers. He is clearly suffering from an unknown physical ailment.”

“That only troubles him when his brother accomplishes something? Have you ever heard of Occam’s Razor?”

Bashir was so passionate about his point, he’d started gesturing with his fork. Ben knew a thing or two about trauma, so he was aware Bashir would be wrestling with his imprisonment for some time. All the same, a good day was its own victory, and this appeared to be a very good day.

“Strange, isn’t it?” asked O’Brien, heading out of the Replimat with a cookie in hand.

“Those two? I’ve seen stranger.” He didn’t think Jadzia and Worf were any less likely a couple, and their relationship was a great success so far. Ben thought it might be for the long haul.

“It’s the weirdest thing. When Julian’s parents were here, Garak was almost protective.”

“I’m glad I wasn’t imagining that,” said Ben.

“I didn’t think he was capable of it.”

It was always hard to be sure with Garak, but Ben had his suspicions that any protective instinct the man had, once roused, was a force to be reckoned with. He certainly didn’t want to tangle with it.

“Occam was an unimaginative man,” said Garak.

“I’m sorry you don’t find statistics exhilarating enough, but he had a valid point,” replied Bashir.

O’Brien looked at them, then said, “The good thing about Garak is, Julian gets someone to talk with, and the rest of us can enjoy our lunches in peace.”

Garak shook his head. “Math has no place in fiction.”

“That’s not what you said about _1984_.” Bashir had a gleam in his eye which Ben had sorely missed.

“You know, Chief,” he said, “I’m just glad to see the doctor’s high spirits returning.”

“I know, sir. Don’t tell him I said so, but I get worried when Julian is too quiet.”

Ben managed not to smile too widely. “My lips are sealed.”

O’Brien walked off with a respectful nod, and Ben saw Kasidy making her way down the Promenade. Behind him, Bashir was midway through a heartfelt defense of George Orwell.

For the moment, all was well.


	8. Coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having put the guys through so much, I thought they deserved a bit of fluff at the end.

Cardassi was a challenging language, and by far the subtlest Julian had attempted to learn. He knew English, Standard (which overlapped significantly with English), Arabic, French, and had gone up to intermediate Vulcan in secondary school. None of them prepared him for Cardassi.

“That’s it?” he asked. “Just making the stroke a touch bolder completely changes the meaning of the character?”

The entire language was a hybrid of alphabetical and character-based which seemed needlessly complicated, but then, Cardassians loved complexity. Simplicity was dull, as Garak often remarked.

“From you singular to you plural, yes.” Garak was not trying to hide the pleasure he took from these lessons. He’d even gone so far as to research the most efficacious teaching methods, though there was very little information on humans learning Cardassi because so few had ever bothered.

“Right. If I want to use this word as the subject of a sentence, where does it fall here?” He tapped a small, spiraling circle (called an ik) which represented a complete Cardassi sentence. Larger spirals (ik’ran) equated to paragraphs.

“That depends on which of the nine ik structures you’re using, which in turn is dictated by the kind of ik’ran you wish to compose, if applicable.”

“I’m starting to see why you said Standard was easy to learn.”

Garak smiled and raised an eyeridge. “I’m certain you’re up to the task.”

Julian pulled up the file Garak had sent him with the one hundred most commonly used Cardassi characters. This was going to be fun. All the more so because he was free to go at his pace, no worrying that he’d been too quick or revisiting what he’d already committed to memory in order to keep up his façade.

“Show me your name,” he said. “Oh, and your best approximation of my name, and of course I need to know the Cardassi word for doctor.”

“You’re not going to learn the entire language in one night,” said Garak, fondly and with amusement.

“That doesn’t mean I don’t want to.”

Garak wrote on his tablet. “My name. Elim,” he tapped the first character set, “Garak.”

Julian tried to copy what he saw, and he could tell by Garak’s polite face he hadn’t done a good job. “My handwriting needs work, doesn’t it?”

“A bit.”

“Well, the night is young.”

* * *

 

After a week of study, it was evident Julian had no difficulty memorizing the written Cardassi language, and his recollection of verbal lessons was nearly as good. His pronunciation, however, was very poor indeed, and the less said about his handwriting, the better. Should he ever need to make himself understood in written Cardassi, Garak hoped he had access to a computer.

“That’s a double kud,” explained Garak. “It makes a _k’k_ sound, not merely an elongated _k_.”

“I can hear it. It’s repeating it where I’m running into trouble. I’m afraid this is going to be a long-term project if I’m ever going to have any hope of making myself understood in Cardassi.”

“I am willing to offer my tutoring services as long as you require.”

“Lucky me,” said Julian, who knew perfectly well how much Garak enjoyed the opportunity to teach Julian his language, that to hear his _anbaras_ speak in even the most halting Cardassi was a delight.

“I am not in the habit of working in half measures, as you are well aware.”

“I am indeed.” Julian gave him a look of general appreciation, which swiftly morphed into a very specific variety. “We should go over parts of the body again. I have a professional interest in those words.”

Garak recognized Julian’s body language, and it was not professional curiosity at the forefront of his mind. “Your patients benefit from having such a dedicated doctor, I’m sure.”

“Mm-hmm. And I find sometimes there’s simply no substitute for hands-on education.”

“Far be it from me to interfere with your quest for knowledge.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” said Julian, and they abandoned their language lesson for the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thus ends the third installment. Coming up next: a series of shorts which will act as a bridge to the fifth and final tale in this series. As always, comments make my day. =)


End file.
